


Opening Lines

by Emospritelet



Series: Tell Me True [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Emotional Sex, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Roommates, Rumbelle Big Bang, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-13 13:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18032780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emospritelet/pseuds/Emospritelet
Summary: After years on the streets, Lacey French is used to taking care of herself, but witnessing a violent crime leads to her bumping into Detective Weaver - quite literally.  He never thought that he needed someone in his life. Until she came hurtling into it.This fic is a prequel to my Woven Lace fic Things Left Unsaid, but you don't need to have read that fic to understand this one.





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> My offering for the Rumbelle Big Bang - check out my tumblr and that of my collaborating artist @evilsnowswan to see her gorgeous art to accompany this fic.

Whatever the time of year, it was always fucking raining in Seattle.

Detective Weaver turned up the collar of his jacket as he stepped out of the humid warmth of Roni’s bar, scowling as rain began to pummel the top of his head.  He zipped the jacket, the brown leather already slippery beneath his fingers, and headed off in the direction of his apartment, shoulders hunched to keep out the wind that was trying to cut him in two.  Raindrops danced on the sidewalks, glittering in the light from bars and late-night diners, soaking into the hems of his jeans and spreading up his calves. At ten-thirty, it was early to be heading home, but he liked to keep a clear head on the streets.  There were too many people out there with a grudge against him, with a score to settle. Besides, there was a decent bottle of whisky in his kitchen, and he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone in order to get a glass.

He turned into an alleyway, which cut off most of the bitter wind, and walked past the dark metal fire escapes, the rain beating out a dull, clanging tune on their steel treads.  It was not far to his apartment, and this was the quickest route from Roni’s, but he moved quickly, hands loose at his sides, alert to any potential threat. Distant shouts made his eyes narrow, and then there was the rhythmic sound of running feet.  Weaver flexed his fingers, glancing around, but could see no one, and the noise died.

He walked on, quickening his pace, and turned into the final alleyway before his street, a narrow rat-run between apartment blocks, dumpsters wedged at angles beside rotting cardboard boxes of discarded flyers, coffee cups rolled into the gutters.  That rhythmic sound was there again, the patter of running feet, and Weaver skirted one of the dumpsters, towards the sound. Immediately a body slammed into him, almost knocking the breath from him, and instinctively he grasped at his assailant’s arms, turning and shoving them against the alley wall.

“Get _off_ me!”

A woman’s frantic voice burst out, and he loosened his grip as he found himself gazing into a pair of wide eyes above a short, rain-slicked black coat.  Weaver released her arms immediately, but didn’t step back, merely reaching for his badge to identify himself.

“Detective Weaver, Seattle P.D,” he said.  “Who’s chasing you?”

She was small and pale, her hair dark and tied up in a messy bun, stray wet curls sticking to her smooth cheeks and the straps of a backpack over her shoulders.  Young: late teens or early twenties. And terrified, although she was trying not to show it, her jaw protruding as she glared at him.

“You have to let me _go_!” she insisted, and made to push past.

“I can help,” he said firmly.  “Who’s after you?”

The sound of running feet was approaching again, this time heavy, uneven.  Two people, he thought. Two men. The girl’s eyes had gone very round, and she shook her head frantically, glancing from left to right as though looking for a place to hide.

“She has to be down one of these fucking streets!” grated a voice from the end of the alleyway.  “What the fuck were you playing at, letting her get away?”

“Bitch fucking bit my hand!” complained the other.

“You’re a pussy!” snapped his companion.  “Can’t even handle one little girl? You’ll be lucky if you’ve still got your balls by the time the boss is done with you.”

“Just help me fucking find her, okay?”  Footsteps came nearer, splashing in the puddles. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.  She can’t be far.”

Weaver shifted position, his hand coming to rest on his gun, his body tense, and the girl shook her head.

“If they find me, they’ll kill us both!” she whispered.  “You have to let me go! I’m faster than they are, fucking lumbering wankers!”

Her accent was Australian, and he wondered what had brought her to an alley in Seattle, of all places.  He put a finger to his lips and she bounced on her toes, chewing her lip as though she was wrestling with a decision, before grabbing his face in her hands.

“Sorry about this!” she breathed.  “It doesn’t mean anything, okay?”

She pressed her mouth to his, and Weaver’s eyes flew wide, his body freezing.  Rain coursed over their faces, making their lips wet, and the girl slid her arms around his back, moving them down to his rear and tugging him hard against her so that her back hit the wet bricks behind.  He was vaguely aware of rapid footsteps approaching, slowing as they did so, and just as he was about to pull back and spin around her tongue pushed between his lips, causing a groan to erupt from deep within him.  

“Hey, have you—”  The man who had spoken earlier cut off with a muffled curse.  “Fuck!”

The sound of footsteps quickened and then faded, growing faint as he headed off down the alley.  She broke the kiss with a wet, sucking sound, pushing Weaver back and glancing over his shoulder.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she said, almost to herself.

He stared at her, eyes wide with shock, his heart thumping.  Her lips were very red, her chest heaving with exertion, and she fixed him with a firm gaze, raising her chin.

“Zero-two-one-nine, okay?” she said, and in a trice she was gone, slipping past him and running into the night.

Weaver was about to call after her, and swallowed the words down with the taste of her, wary of the two men hearing him, and tracing her presence.  Rainwater was trickling down inside his collar, and he shivered, turning on his heel and striding along the alleyway to the street where his apartment was located.  Almost immediately he stopped, feeling something in the back pocket of his jeans. Frowning to himself, he reached in, pulling out a slim cell phone. He figured that the girl must have slipped it in while she was kissing him, and he tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket; he needed to look at the thing more closely, but that would be best done back at his apartment.  Shaking his head, he set off once more, leaving the alley and trotting up the steps of his apartment building. This was turning into one of his weirder evenings.

He locked the door behind him when he got inside, tossing his keys onto the hall table and shrugging off his jacket.  Rain began to drip from it as he hung it up, falling with dull, wet splatters on the tiled floor. He rolled his shoulders, going to his kitchen and fetching some of the latex gloves that he kept around for use in collecting evidence.  Tugging on a pair, he went to retrieve the phone from his jacket pocket and carried it into the kitchen. The strip light in the ceiling cast a pale, harsh glow across the work surfaces, and he squinted at the brightness after the dark of the alleyway.  He went to pour himself a glass of whisky, taking a sip and relishing the burn in his throat before setting the glass down on the table and taking a seat.

The phone lay in front of him, a slim model in shining silver with a finger-smudged screen showing the date and time on its face, so he pressed the button at the bottom.  Immediately a phone keyboard flashed up, wanting a code. Weaver sighed to himself. He was going to have to remove one of the gloves to get anywhere with the thing, and so he peeled one off.   _What was it she said?  Zero-two-one-nine._ He tapped the numbers, and the screen flared to life, rows of applications appearing.  Weaver nodded to himself. _Step one, at least._

He checked the telephone directory, which had around a dozen numbers, none of which had full names next to them, instead a series of initials.  There was nothing that suggested a family member, or the identity of the phone’s owner. He went back to the applications, and checked the photo gallery.  The last entry was a video taken earlier that evening, and he sucked his teeth before clicking on the play button.

The video was unsteady, the quality a little unfocused, and he suspected it had been taken surreptitiously due to the strange angle.  The picture was of what seemed to be the inside of a building, its walls bare brick with exposed wiring and ducting. A warehouse? A cellar?  Three men were in the picture, one in a suit with short dark hair, and the other two in dark pants and bulky black coats, shown from behind a pillar of some sort that kept cutting across the figure on the far left.  The man in the suit had his hands up, a wide, false smile on his face, as though he knew what he was about to say was bullshit but that it was the only chance he had.

“Look, I told you, I can get it,” he was saying.  “I just need a little more time, that’s all.”

“You’ve had all the time you’re getting,” growled one of the men.

Weaver recognised the voice he had heard in the alley.  The man was stocky and somewhat heavy-jowled, his hair swept back off a high forehead.  His partner was a little taller, but with the same stocky build, his face turned away from the camera a little.  Distortion cut out whatever was said next, a crackle obliterating their words as the picture wobbled. When it focused again, he could hear rapid breathing, and imagined it was the girl, out of sight of the three men on video.  The first man raised a gun, and the girl’s breathing cut off with a harsh catch in the throat. There was the crack of a gunshot, a muffled squeak from the girl and a spray of crimson as the body fell.

“The fuck?” shouted the second man.  “You weren’t supposed to fucking _kill_ him, what the hell were you thinking?”

“It was an accident!” yelled the other.

“Great, we’re fucking dead men!”

The picture became jumbled, a loud clattering noise sounding, and Weaver suspected the girl had dropped the phone.

“Hey!” came a shout, and the screen went dark, the play arrow appearing as the end of the video was reached.

Weaver frowned, using a finger to rewind the footage, and watched the murder again.  He didn’t recognise the man killed, or the two assailants, but it looked as though he had a reason for the girl’s flight and their pursuit.  He wondered what she had been doing in there, and whether she knew the victim or his killers.

He sat back in his chair, taking a sip of whisky, fingers tapping on the glass.  It was evidence of a murder, even if he didn’t yet have all the pieces, and he needed more information to get the full picture.  Sitting forward again, he opened up the photo gallery to see what else was in there. Random photographs and selfies, the girl grinning into the camera against the backdrop of a bar, a coffee shop, a deserted beach with a forbidding grey sky.  The pictures told him nothing except that she was extremely pretty, with very blue eyes and white teeth, and that she seemed to be alone. None of the pictures was older than a few weeks, and he briefly wondered what her life had been like before that, and how it had led her to a murder scene.

Weaver put down the phone, and pushed away his whisky glass, pinching the bridge of his nose to clear tired eyes.  He would be more effective at solving mysteries if he actually got some bloody sleep for a change, but given that he had evidence of a murder, it was best to get to the precinct to see if anyone else knew the victim or the shooters.  With any luck, Dunbroch would be on duty and would have made some of her excellent coffee. It looked as though it was going to be another all-nighter.

* * *

Officer Merida Dunbroch was a fellow Scot, a no-nonsense woman with a shock of bright red curls, who had told him to fuck off within the first two sentences they had shared.  Three years down the line, she appeared to have assigned herself the role of his big sister, despite being twenty years his junior, and would make disparaging comments on his sleep schedule, nutrition and lack of romantic entanglements until he snapped at her to go and do something fucking useful.  She was foul-mouthed, hot-tempered and dedicated to her work, and he liked her very much.  He had a sneaking suspicion that she and Detective Fa had a thing for each other, but neither of them seemed willing to act on it, and he wasn’t sure that playing Cupid was his strong suit, given his own non-existent love life.  Merida raised an eyebrow as he wandered into the office, putting her hands on her hips as he slouched into his chair and tapped out a login on the computer.

“I didn’t know you were on the graveyard shift,” she said suspiciously.

“Left at eight thirty,” he replied.

“So what the bloody hell are you doing here, then?  Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“What I have is work to be done,” he said tersely.  “No doubt you can say the same.”

“You pulling double shifts or something?” she asked.  “Because I’m almost certain that Lieutenant Drake told us all to rat you out if you started doing that again.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m busy!” he snapped.  “Did you make any coffee?”

She stomped off with a long-suffering sigh, returning with the coffee pot.

“It’s probably bloody sludge by now.”

“Perfect,” he said absently, and she poured him a cup, black and bitter.

“What’s the big emergency?”

Weaver sat back in his chair as he let the computer complete its login sequence, and reached into his pocket for the phone.

“I received evidence of a murder,” he said.  “I need to know who these people are.”

He played her the video, and Merida peered at it, not batting an eye when the fatal shot rang out.

“Never seen them before.”

“Thanks, that’s a big fucking help.”

“Fa might know,” she suggested.  “Or Nolan. They’ll both be in after lunch.  By which time I’m expecting you to be at home sleeping.”

“Yeah, that’s looking unlikely,” he said.  “Okay, I’ll see what I can find out before then.”

“Give me the phone, then,” she said.  “I’ll get it checked, see if we can run some prints off it.”

“Mine are on there,” he said, and she nodded.

“Where did you find it, anyway?”

Weaver hesitated.

“A girl,” he said.  “I think she was a witness to the murder.”

“And she just handed it over?”

“Not exactly,” he said, turning his attention to the computer so he wouldn’t have to see her expression.  “She came across me in an alley, running from two men who I think are the ones in that footage. She - uh - slipped it in my pocket.  Didn’t notice until she’d gone.”

“Must be good to get past you,” said Merida, with a snort, and he shrugged.

“She kissed me,” he muttered.

_“What?”_

She was almost giggling, and he sighed.

“She kissed me,” he said flatly.  “Slipped it into my pocket while she did it.”

“So she’s running for her life and she stops to snog you?”  Merida snorted in amusement. “Must have been fucking desperate.”

“Don’t you have prints to run?” he snapped, and she wandered off, chuckling to herself.

He took a slurp of the coffee and logged into the computer, opening up a new file and writing up his report of the encounter with the girl, interspersed with sips of coffee.  Merida refilled his cup when she passed his desk, and he murmured thanks, reaching out to take a drink. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t care. He wrote down everything he could recall about the men on the video.  It wasn’t enough to give him much of a steer, but he flicked through the database of known violent offenders, on the chance he might see one of them.  His search was fruitless, and so he went through some of his other cases, writing up two of them and going through evidence on the rest. His eyes were grainy by the time he had finished, and it was getting light outside, so he thought perhaps he should get some sleep. At least until the prints arrived.

“Weaver,” called Merida.  “Message for you.”

“Whoever it is, they can fuck off,” he growled, and she shot him a look, bright red curls bouncing around her shoulders as she stomped over.

“Go home and get some bloody sleep, you miserable bastard,” she said, and he curled his lip at her, making her grin.  She dropped an envelope on his keyboard. “This was handed in at the front desk just now.”

“Really?”

He picked up the envelope, ripping it open.  A matchbook dropped out, turning end over end on his desk before falling flat.  It showed the name of a local diner - Granny’s - a place he had been in once or twice. Turning it over, there was a figure scrawled on the back. _7:15._

“Who brought this?” he asked, holding it up, and she shrugged.

“One of your street kids, I thought,” she said.  “Short. Dark hair and blue eyes. Hoodie. Not seen her before.”

Weaver nodded to himself, and checked his watch.  Almost seven. He had time to get to the diner. He shrugged on his jacket, trying to shake off his tiredness.

“Could be her,” he said.

“Her?”

“The murder witness.”

“The one that stuck her tongue down your throat?”  Merida’s eyes had widened. “Bloody hell, she was barely twenty!  I take it back, she’s not desperate. She’s _blind_ and desperate.”

Weaver shot her a look.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“No you won’t,” she said, in a flat tone.  “See your source and bugger off home. You’re bloody useless on day two of insomnia.”

“Who are you, my mother?” he groused, and she sniffed.

“Thank fucking Christ I’m not, you’re too big to spank.”

“Is this personal abuse just to piss me off or does it have a higher purpose?” he demanded, and she flashed him a smile.

“Get some sleep and I promise to make you an entire pot of coffee to yourself tomorrow,” she said.  “Won’t even spit in it, how about that?”

“Fine,” he sighed.  “Tell Drake where I’ve gone, would you?”

“She’ll probably say ‘good riddance’...”

“And if Nolan knows any of the people in that clip, tell him to call me.”

“Will do,” she said.  “Try not to snog this mystery girl again.”

“You’re fucking hilarious,” he said dryly, and she cackled as he left.

The rain was just starting to spit as he left the building, and he turned up his collar, shoving his hands in his pockets as he walked quickly.  Drizzle had turned to a downpour by the time he reached the diner in question, and he ducked in through the door with relief, brushing the rain from his hair as he glanced around.  The diner was busy, its tables filled with construction workers in heavy boots and guys in nondescript suits and ties loading up on coffee, eggs and pancakes. Weaver took a table by the window, keeping a sharp eye out as the door opened and closed.  The rain was drumming against the road, making those outside run for cover or cower beneath their umbrellas.

“What can I get you?”

He looked up to see a waitress smiling at him, long dark hair with two red streaks held back from her face by a red headband.  A pencil was poised on the little pad she carried.

“Just coffee for the moment, thanks,” he said.  “Black.”

“Sure thing,” she said brightly, jotting it down.  “If you want anything from the menu, just holler.”

Weaver nodded absently, and she hurried off, dark hair bouncing.  He turned his attention back to the street outside, and his eyes narrowed as a small, slender figure hurried past, swathed in a black coat with a hood over her head.  The diner door opened, the sound of the rain outside like radio static, and then the door swung shut, the girl looking around nervously. It was her, he was sure of it.  Pale oval of a face, high cheekbones and full lips, her eyes startlingly blue. She spotted him, and seemed to sag a little in relief, hurrying over, the rain dripping from the sleeves of her coat.

“Wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, slipping into the seat opposite.

“Well, you left me with some rather interesting evidence,” he said, threading his fingers together.  “Do you want some coffee?”

She nodded, and he turned to catch the eye of the waitress, who stopped to snatch up a second cup along with the coffee pot.  She poured for them both, and Weaver watched as the girl shrugged out of her coat. Thin black hooded sweater above thick tights, a tiny skirt and sturdy boots. _She must be bloody freezing._

“Are you hungry?” he asked.  “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

She looked up at him slowly, mouth flattening.

“Oh yeah?” she said suspiciously.  “And you think that gets you what, exactly?”

Weaver’s eyes narrowed.

“I think it gets you fed,” he said, his tone even.  “You look as though you could do with a few decent meals inside you, but maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe you spend every day eating caviar and fucking oysters. You want the bloody breakfast, or not?”

She eyed him cautiously, but nodded, and he gestured to the waitress again.

“Give her the works, please,” he said.

“Eggs over well,” added the girl, and the waitress nodded, scribbling on the pad.

“You want cream for that coffee?”

“God, please!” said the girl fervently, and the waitress smiled, going to fetch one of the small jugs.

Weaver watched as the girl added sugar and cream to her coffee and stirred it, folding her hands around the cup as she hunched forward a little, as though she was afraid of taking up too much space.  Her nails were painted dark red, the lacquer a little chipped at the edges. Her knuckles were white with cold, and he wondered how far she had travelled to get to the diner. Or where she had spent the night.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and she hesitated.

“Lacey,” she said, a little reluctantly.

“Got a last name?”

“No, I’m a pretentious musician who only goes by one word,” she said witheringly, and he felt one corner of his mouth pull upwards.  She had spirit.

“So can I have it?”

“Last name’s on a need-to-know basis,” she said.  “Right now you don’t need to know. It’s just Lacey.”

“Alright, Lacey No-Name,” he said.  “I’m Detective Weaver.”

“I remember.”

She was still cupping the mug of coffee, restless in her seat, her eyes flicking around the diner, and he nodded to himself.  He’d seen kids like her many times: uncomfortable at having to sit in one place for too long and nervous of those around them.  He wondered how long she had been on the streets, and what corner of Seattle she called home. If indeed she slept in the same place two nights running.

“You slipped your phone into my pocket,” he said, and she looked up, alarm on her face.

“You don’t have it, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said.  “It’s evidence.”

Lacey sagged with relief.

“Thought it might have a tracker on it,” she explained.  “Figured that if they wanted to track it to the police department, they could knock themselves out.”

He nodded slowly.

“And ‘they’ are...?”

Lacey seemed to shrink in on herself, shoulders rising up, and she buried her head in her cup, blowing on the coffee to cool it.

“Alright,” he said, feeling weary.  “Let’s try something less complicated.  I watched the video. Where was the footage taken?”

She was silent, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking loose some of the raindrops that clung to it and scattering them across the table top.

“Fine,” he said, half-wondering whether she had been sent by the murderers to distract him.  “In that case, why don’t you talk me through what led you to be in that alleyway?”

“Look, I just wanted a bloody _job_!” she blurted, suddenly animated.  “I answered an ad on the wall of the shelter and some dude gave me the phone and a backpack and I was a bloody dispatch rider, that’s _it_!  And then all of a sudden I’m dropping off a package and I can’t find anyone to fucking _sign_ for the damn thing and before you know it—”

She made finger guns and mimed shots being fired, and then sat back, looking aggrieved.

“I didn’t sign up for this shit!” she went on.  “And I’m sure as hell not going back to base _ever_ , which means I won’t get bloody paid!”

Weaver pulled a notepad and pencil from his pocket, but she shook her head, glancing around worriedly, pale hands reaching up to tug her hood forward again.

“Don’t,” she said.  “I don’t know who I can trust, and if the wrong person sees me sitting here with you taking notes, it’s gonna be pretty obvious why, you know?”

“You do realise that sitting here with your hood up and your shoulders hunched makes you look like you’ve got something to hide, right?” he remarked.  “If I was looking for someone on the run I’d spot you a fucking mile away.”

Lacey opened and closed her mouth, but sat back a little, reaching up to lower the hood.  Her hair was a dark chestnut, split into braids over her ears, reddish strands gleaming in the harsh lights of the diner.  He nodded.

“Better.”

“So you think this won’t look suspicious?” she said wryly, gesturing between them.  “You buy a lot of girls breakfast?”

“Actually yes,” he said.  “I have a number of informants to take care of.”

“I’m not an _informant_ ,” she said immediately.  “I just - you’re a cop, and I thought you could use the information, that’s all.”

“And your definition of an informant is what exactly?”

She looked frustrated, tugging at her lip with her teeth as she glanced out at the street.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” she muttered.  “If the wrong person sees me here with you…”

“You could always come to the police department,” he suggested, tapping his pencil on the notebook.

“Same issue.”

“You came earlier.”

“Yeah, for like a minute,” she said scornfully.  “I dropped off the matchbook and took off again. No one could accuse me of hanging around to give a bloody statement, could they?  Just put your damn notebook away.”

He slipped the notepad and pencil back in his pocket with a sigh.

“Memory it is, then,” he said.  “Which company did you work for?”

“Black Knights,” she said immediately.  “Money wasn’t bad, either. Fifteen bucks an hour plus tips. Should have known it was too good to last.”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

Lacey shook her head.

“Bike,” she said.  “Easier to get around, and you can go more places.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Just over a month.”

“Any problems up to this point?”

She wrinkled her nose, but shook her head.

“You don’t seem so sure,” he said, and she shrugged.

“Few sleazy clients and a creepy boss, but honestly I’m pretty used to that.  Mostly it was fine.”

“Who were the clients?”

“Mixture,” she said.  “Lawyers, businesses, restaurants, private addresses - you name it.”

“And what sort of things were you delivering?”

Lacey shrugged.

“Never asked.  Turned up at base, got a route and the packages, and off I went.  No time to hang around poking into other people’s business.”

“Anything illegal?” he asked, and she shifted in her seat.

“Like I said.  Never asked.”

Weaver nodded slowly.  It was possible that at least some of the packages would interest the police, but he believed her when she said she didn’t know.  The desperate asked few questions.

“Were the packages signed for?”

“Sometimes,” she said.  “It was a more expensive service, so for most stuff we just went by address. Sometimes there’d be a named person we’d need a signature from, though. It varied. Instructions were on the itinerary.”

“Don’t suppose you still have that?”

She shook her head, and Weaver took a sip of his coffee.

“Alright,” he said.  “So tell me about this last drop you made.  Pretty late to be making deliveries.”

Lacey fidgeted a little, plucking at the sleeve of her coat.

“Yeah,” she said.  “I mean that’s not unusual - they ran a twenty-four-seven service for the right price.  Got the call around nine when I was on my last run. Special delivery, which means the guy paid to have it hand-delivered to a specific person.  So I rode back to base, picked up the package, got the name and address, and turned right around.”

“What was the address?”

“Warehouse on Misthaven Avenue,” she said.

“And the name?”

“Perry Mason.”

Weaver let out a tiny grunt of annoyance, running a hand over his face.

“So,” he said.  “A lawyer.”

She pulled a face, lifting the coffee cup.

“How should I know?”

“No, it’s - it’s a false name,” he explained patiently.  “He was a fictional character. A lawyer on a TV show.”

“Oh.”  Lacey took a slurp of coffee and sat back.  “Before my time, I guess.”

“So what happened then?”

“Locked up my bike outside the side door,” she said.  “It was open, so I went in.”

“Did you see anyone outside?” he asked.  “Any vehicles you remember?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“No one outside,” she said.  “Big black car. Couldn’t tell you the make - I wasn’t really looking.”

“And then?”

“Place seemed deserted,” she said.  “Empty office, but the lights were on.  There was a set of stairs next to it, so I took ‘em.  Went up to a corridor that opened out on the warehouse.  That was when I heard voices. Saw the two big bastards and thought they looked like trouble, so I hung back.”

Weaver nodded.

“Go on.”

“The guy in the suit looked like he was trying to convince them of something,” she said slowly, rolling her mug between the palms of her hands.  “I dunno - something made me take my phone out and start recording. I figured if I couldn’t get a signature the boss would wanna know why, you know?”

“Do you remember anything they said to each other before you started recording?”

Lacey wrinkled her nose.

“Something like ‘out of patience’?” she said, looking uncertain.  “They looked like hired muscle.  Or maybe regular-paycheck-muscle, I guess. Working for someone not so nice. Seemed like they wanted something from Suit Guy and he didn’t have it, huh?”

“Maybe,” said Weaver.  “Then what happened?”

“They blew the guy’s brains out,” said Lacey, shuddering a little.  “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen anyone get shot before, but…”

She shrugged, shrinking in on herself again, and Weaver nodded.

“Then you ran.”

“I - I kind of squeaked when he was shot,” she admitted.  “I couldn’t help it, it was - it was a _lot_ of blood.  And I dropped the phone.  That’s when they saw me, so I scooped it up and ran for it.  One of them grabbed me, but I bit him as hard as I could and he let me go.  I managed to beat them out of the warehouse, but I didn’t have time to unlock my bike.  I just ran as fast as I could for the nearest alley and kept fucking going. Then I bumped into you.”

Weaver took a slurp of his coffee, nodding.

“And what happened to the package?”

“Still got it.”

“Can I see it?”

“I don’t have it _with_ me,” she said, as though he were stupid.  “It’s hidden.”

“So can you get it to me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

The waitress returned, setting a large plate in front of Lacey with eggs, bacon, hash browns and a short stack of pancakes.  She set down a glass of orange juice, along with a plate of toast and a dish containing packets of butter and grape jelly.

“That looks awesome, thank you!” said Lacey, reaching for the ketchup, and the waitress smiled and hurried off.

There was silence for a few minutes as Lacey began working her way through the breakfast.  Weaver finished his coffee, nodding his thanks to the waitress when she refilled it, and Lacey folded a slice of bacon in half, stabbing a piece of fried egg and shoving it in her mouth.  She was watching him as she chewed, and he wondered what was going through her mind.

“I assume there’s something you want in exchange for this package, and the breakfast’s not gonna cut it,” he said.  “What about twenty bucks?”

Lacey shrugged, setting down her knife and holding up four fingers.

“Forty, then,” he agreed.  “But promise me you’ll at least spend it on food or a place to stay, hmm?”

She frowned at him, as though she didn’t like the implication that she might do otherwise.  He didn’t much care if she was pissed at him; he’d had more than one of his network of informants die young from drink and drugs, and he didn’t want her to be the next.  He held her gaze for a moment, and eventually she nodded, before turning back to her breakfast. She was eating more slowly now, the eggs and bacon gone, and the pancakes about half done.  He watched as she spread butter on the toast and followed it with grape jelly, and she flicked her eyes up to meet his, a sudden spark of mischief in them, as though the food had restored her spirit.

“You didn’t say anything about me kissing you,” she said, and he shrugged.

“Was I supposed to?”

Lacey’s brow crinkled a little, blue eyes sweeping back and forth across his face, as though searching for something.

“Not every day a strange girl decides to corner you in an alley and suck face, right?” she said, with a grin.

“I presumed you had your reasons.”

“Yeah.”

She seemed surprised by his response, and it appeared to make her almost uncomfortable, as though it was not what she had expected.  He wondered if she had kissed other strange men, with different, perhaps more predictable results.

“I was - well, I guess I was trying one of those things in the movies?” she explained awkwardly.  “You know - where they make out to hide from the bad guys? Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out or - or make you think I was maybe offering something else.”

“I didn’t,” he said, in a wry tone.  “You said it didn’t mean anything.”

“It didn’t.”

“Well then,” he said.  “Since I very much doubt you want to kiss me again, we’ll say no more about it.”

Lacey stabbed a piece of pancake with her fork, watching him curiously.

“Okay.  Cool.”

She turned back to her breakfast, mopping syrup with the piece of pancake, and he took a sip of his coffee.

“So,” he said.  “The package.”

Lacey gestured at him with her fork.

“Let’s see the forty bucks first.”

“I’m not gonna bloody rip you off,” he snapped.  “And you seem to think I came down in the last fucking shower!  The package first, then you get the cash, deal?”

She eyed him for a moment, her gaze cautious, but finally nodded.

“Deal.”

“Okay,” he said.  “So when are you handing it over?”

Lacey ate her final piece of pancake, setting down her knife and fork and picking up a piece of toast.  She took a bite, dropping it back onto the plate and sucking crumbs from her thumb.

“I’ll find you,” she said decidedly.  “Not here. Expect to see me sometime within the next day or so.  Try not to shove me against a wall this time. You know, unless it’s for something more exciting.”

She grinned at him, wiggling her eyebrows, and Weaver frowned.

“You can stop that right now,” he said severely.  “This is about the package, nothing more, got it?”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“That’s usually the line I have to use,” she remarked.  “Anyone ever tell you you’re weird for a guy?”

“Constantly,” he said dryly.

He drained his cup, digging in his pocket for some cash and tucking it under his cup, and Lacey’s eyes followed it.

“I guess I’ll see you when I see you,” he said.  “And this cash is to pay the nice young lady that brought your breakfast, by the way.”

“I wasn’t gonna take it!” she said indignantly.

“Just making sure,” he said, pushing back his chair.  “Until we meet again, Lacey No-Name.”

“Go fuck yourself, Detective.”

He grinned at that, turning up his jacket collar and striding out into the driving rain again.


	2. The Plot Thickens

Weaver took Merida’s advice and went home to get his head down for a few hours, waking promptly at two p.m.  A shower and shave made him feel a little less like death warmed up, and so he returned to the precinct, nodding a greeting to his partner, David Nolan.  The man was a lot younger than he, taller and broader with cropped, dark blond hair and blue eyes. He was calm and conscientious, and a genuinely decent guy.  Weaver hadn’t been able to work out why the two of them had been partnered, unless Lieutenant Drake was hoping that Nolan would be a good influence. A futile hope, it turned out; Nolan was gradually losing his rigid adherence to the rules.  It made him a better detective, in Weaver’s opinion.

“We think we’ve found your murder victim,” said Nolan, gesturing at his computer screen.  “A body was dredged up along the coast a few hours ago. Been weighed down with chains, but they got caught by a fishing trawler.  Single gunshot wound to the head. Bit of a mess.”

“Any I.D?”

“Not officially, but we have a Missing Persons report for a lawyer named Isaac Heller,” said Nolan. “His office called it in.  Hasn't shown up to work in a few days, and not answering any calls."

"What's his area of law?"

"Does criminal defence work, mainly," said Nolan. "He works for a firm over on Camelot Street.  We’ve asked someone there to go to the morgue, see if we can get a positive on the guy.”

Weaver grunted.

“Not exactly a high-flyer, then.”

“Well, I was trying to keep an open mind,” admitted Nolan.  “But yeah. Pretty much every two-bit crooked lawyer we’ve come across works around there, right?”

“Which begs the question, who was his client?”  Weaver slumped into his chair. “Any word on that?”

“Nothing yet,” said Nolan.  “If they I.D. him, I thought we might head over there.”

“Good."  Weaver ran a hand through his hair.  "In the meantime, I might have a lead of my own.  A bike messenger, sent to the warehouse. She was the one that took the footage.”

“The one that kissed you?”  Nolan was grinning at him. “Dunbroch told me all about it.  While laughing.”

“And as it’s in no way relevant to the investigation, I have no doubt you told her to mind her own business,” he said shortly.  “The point is, the girl’s agreed to hand over the package she was due to deliver.”

“When?”

“Some time in the next day or so,” he said, repeating Lacey’s words. “Wouldn’t agree a time and place; she says she’ll find me.  She’s scared, so I’m happy to play things her way for now.”

“I guess we’ll wait and see what she turns up with, then.”

There was silence for a moment, and Weaver sat back in his chair.

“How’s Snow?” he asked, glancing across, and Nolan smiled widely.

“Only a couple of months to go,” he said.  “She’s getting uncomfortable now with the baby kicking.  Be glad when it’s over.”

“Any word on what you’re having?”

“Well, I think it’s a boy, and she thinks it’s a girl, so who knows?”  He gave Weaver a lopsided grin. “I don’t think we really care, as long as the baby’s healthy.”

“Drake giving you time off?”

“I’ll take a couple of weeks when the baby’s born,” he said.  “Snow’s planning on taking the rest of the school year, going back in September next year.  I’ll be needing some overtime.”

“Well, there’s always plenty of that,” said Weaver dryly.

* * *

They got an I.D. on the victim at just after five, and it was indeed the missing lawyer, Isaac Heller.  Weaver and Nolan headed out with some of the officers to carry out a search of his office, and left several officers packing up boxes of his files for later inspection.  They then went to his home address, a small two-bed in one of the cheaper suburbs.

“If this guy was mixed up in anything sinister, he wasn’t being paid for it,” remarked Nolan, as they headed up the narrow path.

“Or he didn’t want to be mixed up in it,” said Weaver grimly.  “Maybe he actually had some morals. I’m told it happens occasionally.”

“I thought that was just a myth.”

Weaver grinned as he mounted the porch, but then his eyes narrowed and he held up a hand, making Nolan pause behind him.  The front door was open a crack, and Weaver looked over his shoulder, beckoning to Merida.

“Looks like a break-in,” he called.

The police officers hurried forward immediately, and the two detectives stood back as they yelled out a warning before pushing open the front door.  Weaver waited, hearing the muffled shouts as they announced themselves before entering each room. Nolan exchanged a glance with him, and Weaver shrugged, but it didn’t take the officers long to complete their sweep.  Merida came out, nodding to him as she put her gun away.

“Place has been ransacked,” she said abruptly.  “No one there, but it’s a bloody pigsty. They even hacked open the couch.”

“Fucking perfect,” growled Weaver.  “This is gonna be a waste of fucking time, then.”

He tapped Nolan on the arm, jerking his head towards the front door, and sauntered in, casting an eye about. Merida hadn’t been kidding. The lounge was strewn with papers, books and what looked like stuffing from the couch cushions.  Clearly the thief, or thieves, had been looking for something.

“Looks like this is gonna take awhile,” said Nolan dryly.

* * *

Hours later, Weaver made his way back to his apartment, a bag of Chinese food swinging from one hand, his gaze flicking from left to right as he strode through the deserted alleyways.  It was approaching one in the morning, and he was wired on too much caffeine and adrenaline. He hoped Nolan was getting some sleep, at least. It was looking as though the Heller case would be taking up a lot of their time.  They had found nothing at his property that pointed to his killers; the man appeared to live a relatively clean life, with a liking for biographies and thrillers, softcore pornography and cheap whisky. His computers had been bagged up and taken off for analysis, but Weaver had a feeling they would be a dead end.  There was nothing to suggest what the intruders had been searching for.

A noise reached his ears, a splashing that was out of place, and he paused on the balls of his feet, glancing around.  Footsteps, sneaking closer. Weaver dropped the bag of takeout, whipping around with a snarl, and Lacey jumped back out of his reach with a wide-eyed look of alarm.

“Whoa!” she said.  “Easy there, Detective!  You almost took my head off.”

“Probably best not to sneak up on me, then,” he remarked.  “I thought you’d remember that.”

“Oh right, the wall thing,” she said.  “That wasn’t so bad, as I recall.”

She grinned at him wickedly, and he rolled his eyes.

“Lacey, it’s fucking late,” he said wearily.  “Was there something you wanted?”

Lacey shrugged, shifting from foot to foot and looking a little uncomfortable.  The straps of a backpack were over her shoulders, and she wore a padded jacket, a woollen beanie hat covering her hair.

“Told you I’d find you, didn’t I?” she said.  “I can bugger off if it’s a bad time, no worries.”

She kept glancing at the bag he had dropped, and he realised she was probably hungry.  He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I - uh - I bought Chinese food,” he said.  “Always order too much. You want to help me eat it?”

She wavered, chewing her lip, and he bent to pick up the bag, letting it swing back and forth as it dangled from an outstretched finger, fragrant steam rising from it in the frigid air.  Lacey licked her lips.

“It’ll just end up in the trash if you don’t,” he added, and she nodded awkwardly.

“Okay.”

“Come on, then.”

He led her through the alleyway to his apartment building, Lacey glancing around curiously as they went, as though she was trying to orientate herself.  He let them into the building, ignoring the elevator and taking the stairs to the third floor. She kept close at his heels, and he let them into the apartment, flicking on the lights and locking the door after them.  Lacey stood in the hallway, bouncing on her toes and hugging herself, and he set the bag of food on the hall table and shrugged out of his jacket.

“Kitchen’s off to the right,” he said, gesturing along the corridor.  “You can take your coat off, if you like.”

Lacey shot him a suspicious look, but slipped off her backpack, leaving the coat on as she walked through to the kitchen.  She was wearing tight black jeans and a sweatshirt with some band he’d never heard of on the front. When he followed her in, he noticed that she was seated nearest to the door, in preparation for a hasty escape.  He set the bag of food on the table and went to get plates, putting his down in the place opposite her, to give her as much space as he could. Lacey was fidgeting a little, looking around herself, and he crossed to the fridge and opened it up.

“You got any beer?” she asked from behind him, and he turned.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He grunted.  She could be, and he suspected that any I.D. she showed him would be fake, anyway.  He took two cans of beer from the fridge and set them on the table, pulling the cartons of Chinese food from the bag and tossing a pair of chopsticks to her.

“Help yourself.”

He opened up a packet of pork dumplings, watching as Lacey pulled fried noodles into a tangle on her plate and scooped glistening chunks of chicken with ginger over the top.  Weaver waited until she had taken what she wanted before helping himself, and there was silence for five minutes as she wolfed down everything on her plate. She ate four of the dumplings, picked neatly out of their foil container with the chopsticks and dipped into hot sauce, leaving two for him.  He didn’t say anything, but she shot him an apologetic look anyway. When she was done she looked around as though hoping for more, and Weaver pushed the remains of the chicken at her.

“You sure?” she said, and shrugged as he nodded, upending the container over her plate and scraping the last of the noodles over it.  When she had eaten that she let out a sigh, pushing her plate away, and Weaver ate the last of what was on his plate. Lacey popped open the can of beer and drank half of it, and he opened his own, setting down his chopsticks.

“Thanks for that,” she said sincerely.  “I mean it. Weather’s getting colder, and it makes me hungry.”

“There’s bread and cheese if you want it,” he said.  “Some peanut butter in the cupboard.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

She drank more of her beer, and he nodded, gathering up the plates and carrying them to the sink before tossing the empty cartons in the trash and wiping the few splashes of sauce and grease from the table.

“You’re pretty tidy for a guy,” observed Lacey, watching him.  “You always lived alone?”

“For a long time, yes,” he said.  “You?”

She shifted in her seat.

“Since I was fifteen or so.”

“Where was home originally?”

“Melbourne.”

“What brought you to the US?”

“Family,” she said abruptly.  “My father worked in Nevada.”

“So how did you end up in Seattle?”

Lacey’s mouth twisted.

“Seemed like the furthest I could get from a bad situation, you know?”

“It’s a long way to run,” he said dryly, and she shrugged.

“Lesser of two evils.”

“Are you still in touch with your family?”

Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Let’s ditch the interview, Detective,” she said.  “Not looking to hug and cry and talk about how crappy my life is.  I came to find you to hand over the package. That’s it.”

Weaver recognised bravado when he heard it, but he let it slide.  She didn’t trust him, and there was no reason she should. He drained his can and stood up, crumpling it in his hand.

“You want another beer?” he asked.  “I’m having one.”

Lacey eyed him shrewdly.

“Trying to get me drunk?” she asked.  “It’ll take a damn sight more than two beers.”

“There’s milk if you’d prefer.”

“No, I’ll take the beer,” she said immediately, and he turned to the fridge to hide a smile, getting two more cans.

“Alright,” he said, taking a seat.  “Let’s see what you have for me.”

Lacey sighed, sitting back, and reached into her backpack, drawing out a plain padded envelope.  She hesitated, then handed it over, and Weaver took it.

“You’re not worried this has a tracker, then?” he asked dryly, and she shook her head.

“Nah.  Although if it does, they’re gonna come for you, not me,” she said.  “Haven’t been chased by anyone since I bumped into you, though, so I think you’re safe.”

“You think your dispatch company put trackers in its phones, though?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “Like I said, I didn’t ask questions about what I was carrying.  Pays to be cautious though, right?”

He turned the envelope over in his hands.  The address, printed in neat letters on a label, along with the logo of the delivery company.  The name above - Perry Mason. His mouth flattened. Had the package been meant for Heller, or not?  The evidence was circumstantial, but they hadn’t yet been able to find any connection between the victim and the warehouse in which he had been killed.

“Who was your boss at Black Knights?” he asked, and she made a face.

“Name’s Keith Sherwood,” she said.  “He’s a sleaze, but other than that I can’t tell you much about him.”

“Would it be him that makes the bookings for the riders?”

Lacey nodded, taking a swig of her beer.

“I guess.  Pretty sure he did the itineraries each day.”

“Any idea what records he keeps?”

She shook her head, and Weaver nodded, turning the package over and over in his hands as he inspected it.  It was light, and didn’t appear to have been tampered with. He glanced up at Lacey, who was eyeing him over the top of the beer can.

“You open this?” he asked, and she shook her head.

He lifted the flap of the envelope as much as he could, peering underneath, but could see nothing that shouldn’t be there, and so he made a decision, ripping it open and pulling out a thick piece of paper folded into thirds.  There was a tinkling sound, and a tiny key bounced on the table, gleaming silver in the light. Weaver frowned at it, reaching to pick it up between finger and thumb.

“A safe deposit box key,” he said, almost to himself.

“Yeah?”  Lacey slurped at her beer.  “From where?”

He shook his head and opened the piece of paper.  A single sentence was written in black ink, the letters slanting to the right as they stretched across the page. _The price is paid_.  He mouthed the line, brow crinkling in puzzlement, and showed it to Lacey.

“Mean anything to you?” he asked, and she shook her head.

A green sticky note was attached beneath, a series of upper and lower case letters and numbers written on it in a neat hand, the ink different to that above.  Lacey craned her head to see it.

“Looks like a password no one wants you crack.”

“A password for what?” he mused.

“I’m guessing it’s not the wifi at Granny’s.”

A search of the envelope revealed nothing further, and his mouth flattened in annoyance.  Wherever the lock that the key fitted was located, and whatever the password was for, the intended recipient must have known. Whether that had been Heller, one of his clients, or someone unconnected, remained to be seen. He would need to make some enquiries.

“Is there anything more you can tell me about this?” he asked.

“Only that you owe me forty bucks.”

He shot her a look at that, but nodded, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.  Lacey watched him count out a twenty and two tens, and held out her hand, palm upwards.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Detective,” she said sweetly, and pushed back her chair, draining her beer and pocketing the money.

“What will you do?” he asked.  “Now you’re out of work?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.  “Always get by, one way or another.”

“I pay for good information,” he said, and she pursed her lips.

“I’ll remember that.”

“You have a place to stay tonight?” he asked, and she gave him that narrow-eyed look again, distrust coming off her in waves.

“I’m okay,” she said.  “Don’t stay in one place too long, you know?”

“It’s just that I have a spare room,” he added.  “If you wanted something more comfortable than a warehouse.”

Lacey’s eyes narrowed further.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said flatly.  “Thanks for the food, though. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

She didn’t seem to respond well to offers of help, her walls flying up, suspicion radiating from her.  He had seen it before from other kids in her position, so he decided to adopt a dismissive attitude.

“Guess I’m stuck with the dishes, then,” he grumbled, and jerked his head towards the door.  “Go on, fuck off.”

Lacey grinned at that, eyes sparkling, and snatched up her backpack and coat, sauntering out.  He watched her go, hearing the front door slam behind her. She’d been looking after herself for years without his help. Maybe she’d be okay.

* * *

Weaver found, to his annoyance, that the safe deposit box key was impossible to identify and appeared not to be linked either to Isaac Heller or the firm of lawyers he had worked for.  There were numerous banks that used deposit boxes in the city, and even if he had the time to get around them all, there was nothing to say that the box was even in Seattle. Nolan had found little of use in the files they had taken, beyond a list of names of mainly petty criminals and low-level fraudsters that Heller had been acting for.  Checking each of them out was going to be a lengthy process, and so Weaver suggested paying Lacey's former employer a visit, in the hope it would give them a steer.

They parked the car some way along the street from Black Knights, and Weaver glanced around with narrowed eyes as he locked the car doors, the sky above them ominously grey.  It was going to rain again, and he hunched his shoulders a little, shoving his hands in his pockets as he led Nolan towards the end of the street.

The package delivery service was housed in a small warehouse building, the office a drywall cube with a desk, chair, computer and printer.  The walls were lined with shelves filled with boxes of unused envelopes and rolls of tape, and bundles of letters and packages waiting to be sent.  The warehouse beyond held half-full bicycle racks and more shelving, along with a couple of dozen lockers. Weaver spotted the owner as soon as he entered: a tall dark-haired man with a ridiculously small, pointed beard, who appeared to have a high opinion of his own attractiveness, his chest thrown out and a wide smile on his face.  A pretty brunette in leggings and thick-soled boots was eyeing him warily as she took a printed list from one hand and a full backpack from the other.

“That package for Nottingham Drive needs a signature,” he said, grinning at her.  “They’re paying extra for delivery within the hour, so get this job right and I’ll have more work for you, Iris.”

“It’s _Ivy_ ,” said the girl dryly.  “When do I get paid?”

“Let’s discuss that over a drink after your shift,” he said, with a wide smile.  “Wouldn’t mind getting to know you a little better.”

“Keith Sherwood?” said Weaver, and flashed his badge as the man looked around, scowling.  “Seattle P.D. I’m Detective Weaver, this is Detective Nolan. We need a word.”

Keith’s face seemed to flit between fury, desperation and anxiety before settling on what he no doubt believed was an ingratiating smile.

“Sure thing, officers,” he said.  “Ivy, I’ll see you later for that drink.”

“Whatever,” said the girl, unimpressed, and shouldered the backpack before taking a bicycle from the rack and heading out.

“Fucking tease,” muttered Keith, staring after her, and Weaver felt his fists clench.  Nolan cleared his throat.

“We’re investigating the murder of Isaac Heller,” he said.

Weaver wandered over to the lockers, running his eyes over them.  The locks were the wrong shape for the little key he had taken from Lacey, and he mentally crossed off that idea.

“Who?”

“A lawyer who worked over on Camelot Street,” Nolan went on.  “Got himself shot.”

“Careless,” said Keith, with a shrug.  “Wish I could help you gentlemen.”

“Then it’s your lucky day,” said Weaver easily, turning away from the lockers.  “Can we step into your office?”

Keith folded his arms.  “You got a warrant?”

Weaver showed his teeth.

“Oh, we’re not carrying out a search,” he said.  “Just making enquiries. I’m sure you want to give us all the help you can so we can be on our way.”

Keith eyed them for a moment, then shrugged, turning and stomping into the office.

“Hurry up and tell me what you want,” he said gruffly.  “I have a respectable business to run.”

“Looks as though you’re doing well,” said Nolan, in a genial tone.  “Who are your clients?”

“Oh, a lot of local businesses, you know,” said Keith, puffing out his chest a little.  “Lawyers, accountants, you name it. We’re getting a really great reputation for service around this area.”

“That must take a lot of organisation,” said Nolan.  “I’m guessing you’d have to work hard to keep on top of the records, right?”

Keith snorted.

“Man, you have no idea,” he said, and patted the top of his computer monitor.  “Half the job is keeping this baby updated. Everything gets entered into the database, and the computer bundles ‘em up and decides on the most efficient routes to take.  Then I load my guys and gals up with packages and off they go.”

“How do you keep track of the packages?”

“The phones have apps to track everything,” he said.  “Orders are mainly online, and whoever’s sending it gets a barcode to print off and stick on the package.  We scan them at pick-up and drop-off, and I can stay in touch and get them to make a detour if someone pays for pickup, you know?”

“Seems like you’re at the cutting-edge,” said Nolan, and Keith grinned proudly.

“Well, this is only a start-up, but we’ve expanded to cover the entire city in less than a year,” he said.  “Quick turnaround, you see. Delivery within the hour, at the right price. Technology’s the future.”

“Sounds as though there wouldn’t be a single package you couldn’t identify,” suggested Nolan, and Keith nodded, folding arms across his chest.

“Got that right.  I run a tight ship.”

“Excellent,” said Weaver briskly.  “Because we’re looking for a copy of the itinerary that covered the drop to the warehouse on Misthaven two nights ago.  Special delivery, late. No doubt you remember it.”

Keith grunted.

“Right, Lacey’s gig,” he said, with a sneer.  “Bitch fucking left me in the lurch! Went out with one of my bikes and never fucking came back!”

“What was that name?” asked Weaver, as though it didn’t matter.

“Lacey French,” he said shortly.  “She’d been here for about a month.  Good worker, but kind of a tease, you know?  Turned down my offer of drinks every fucking night like she was too good for me.”

“Weird,” said Nolan.  “What with you being such a catch.”

“Right?” said Keith, sounding aggrieved.  “Respectable business owner, pretty hot if I say it myself, and she turns up her fucking nose!  And then she runs off with my stuff! I have to replace that shit!”

“Was she owed money?” asked Weaver, eyeing the shelves of envelopes and packages.

“Technically, I guess,” he said.  “But less the amount she owes me for the fucking bike, so she’s owed a grand total of fucking nothing.”

 _We’ll see about that_.

“We found your bike,” said Nolan.  “You need to come down to the station, file a report and claim it.  Easy.”

“Well, there’s the backpack and the phone, too…”

“Look, never mind all that,” said Weaver impatiently.  “Do you have a copy of the itinerary or not?”

Keith grumbled under his breath, but sat down at the computer and tapped at some keys.  The printer on the desk began churning out a page, and Weaver took it as it came out, a list of printed names, addresses and instructions with barcodes to the side.  He scanned it briefly, nodding when he saw the warehouse address.

“Who placed this order?” he asked, setting the paper on the desk and tapping it with a finger.  Keith sighed.

“Look, I don’t have time for this…”

“I have a feeling you do,” said Nolan.

“And if you don’t we’ll help you make some,” said Weaver, his voice even.

Keith eyed him warily, then muttered under his breath and tapped keys on the computer.

“Huh,” he said, squinting at the screen.

“Are you telling me you didn’t keep a record?” asked Nolan.  “Meticulous as you are?”

Keith gave him a flat look.

“No, I’ve got the record,” he said.  “If I print it out will you get out of my fucking face?”

“Let’s see it, then.”

The printer began chuntering again, and Weaver picked up the piece of paper between finger and thumb.  He frowned at its contents before slapping it down on the desk, glaring at Keith.

“Jack Horner?” he said flatly.  “108 Plum Pie Corner? Are you taking the fucking piss?”

“That’s the name on the system!” protested Keith, throwing up his hands.

“So where are the credit card details?” asked Weaver, and then let his head roll back with a dry chuckle.  “Oh, don’t tell me. He paid cash.”

“Uh - yeah.”  Keith shifted in his seat, and Weaver exchanged an exasperated look with Nolan.

“I thought all your orders were online,” said Nolan.

“No, I said _most_ orders,” said Keith.  “Some were made over the phone, and sometimes people came direct to the office.  Didn’t happen that often.”

“Then you should remember who sent the package.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Keith, with a sneer.  “Guess I was too busy actually busting my balls for a living, not going around interrogating innocent people like you guys.”

“You got any security cameras in this place?” asked Nolan.

“This look like fucking Fedex to you?”

“So what did he look like?”

“How should I fucking know?” asked Keith belligerently.  “We deal with hundreds of packages here!”

“Yeah, but how many of ‘em pay cash?” demanded Weaver.  “I thought the majority of your clients were bloody businesses.  Pay you in used singles and bloody quarters, do they?”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, giving him a sneaky, furtive look.

“We - might - have a lot of - uh - private clients - who prefer to deal in cash...” he admitted, and Weaver let out a humourless laugh.

“Oh, I just bet you do,” he sneered.  “Respectable business my fucking arse!  I’m guessing it’s nothing but fences and low-level drug dealers.”

“Hey, what people ask us to ship is none of my business!”

Weaver leaned on the desk, but Nolan’s calming hand on his shoulder stopped him before he could lose his temper.

“Fine,” he said.  “Has anyone been in touch since to ask about the package?”

“No,” said Keith.  “Why would they? She did deliver it, right?”

“Thanks for your help, Mr Sherwood,” said Nolan.  “You remember anything about who sent this package, you let us know, alright?”

“Like I said.”  Keith leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head.  “Always happy to help out the cops.”

“One more thing,” said Weaver, raising a finger.  “The girl who delivered the package. Lacey French.”

“What about her?”

“You got an address?”

Keith shrugged.

“Look, man, girls like her come and go.  She gave me an address, but I’m willing to bet it was fake.  Did her shift, got paid cash, would probably have moved on in a week or so anyway...”

“Let’s see her record,” said Weaver.

Keith grumbled again, but tapped some keys and printed off another page.  Weaver looked it over. The address was indeed fake - she had given the number and street where Granny’s Diner was situated.  It made his lips twitch in amusement, even as he worried a little over whether she actually had a roof over her head.

“So,” he said evenly.  “Says here she’s owed three hundred and ninety dollars.”

“Less what she owes me for the bike.”

“Which will be returned, as Detective Nolan told you,” said Weaver, and dropped the paper on the desk. “Three-ninety. Pay up.”

 _“What?”_ spluttered Keith.

“You heard me.  Pay me what she owes and I’ll see that she gets it.”

“I’m not handing over nearly four hundred bucks!”

“Oh, I think you are,” said Weaver quietly.  “Otherwise I will feel compelled to report my concerns to the relevant authorities.”

“What _concerns_?”

“I’m guessing there’s a failure to check documentation of your workers,” said Weaver, with a thin smile. “Given the itinerant nature of your staff, I suspect it’s all too easy to lose track of who gets paid. In cash.  A suspicious person might think your business was ripe for a money-laundering operation.”

“Tax evasion has to be a distinct possibility,” added Nolan.

“Not to mention the likelihood of substantial parcels of drugs being sent through this place,” went on Weaver. “I mean the evidence is circumstantial, but I feel confident we could get a warrant on that basis. I’m sure you have nothing to hide, but you know how thorough the police like to be at times.”

“Could close the place down for weeks until the misunderstanding gets cleared up,” said Nolan, and Keith sat forward with a scowl.

“Fucking bastards,” he muttered.

“Three-ninety,” repeated Weaver, and Keith shoved back his chair and stomped off to the safe, cursing under his breath.

* * *

Weaver tucked the envelope of cash into his inside pocket as they left the warehouse.  He suspected he would bump into Lacey French again at some point, and handing over the money should help to earn her trust.  Such as it was.

“You think he knows more than he’s letting on?” asked Nolan.

“Oh, undoubtedly, but I think he’s pissing himself over what gets sent through his service, rather than anything we’re looking into,” said Weaver.  “I’ll mention it to Vice, but I doubt he has much to worry about at this stage.”

“Which means we’re back to the drawing board.”

“This job is ninety percent false starts and blind alleys, you know the drill.”

“So,” said Nolan.  “Back to going through Heller’s client list?”

“Someone has to bloody do it, I suppose.”

“This is looking like it might turn into a cold case,” said Nolan, with a grimace.  “I hate it when that happens.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a result, Dunbroch did call in that double homicide earlier,” said Weaver.  “Could be a quick hit, the son called 911 and confessed.”

“Not much to investigate.”

“Never accept things at face value, Nolan, how many times…”

It had started to rain again, a fine drizzle that was soaking into his jeans, and Weaver cursed the weather under his breath as he headed for where they had parked the car.  Nolan kept shooting him glances out of the corner of his eye, and eventually Weaver sighed and turned to him, raising his arms and letting them drop.

“What?”

“Well, I’m just wondering why you decided to go into debt-collecting,” said Nolan mildly, and Weaver rolled his eyes, turning away again.

“Why do you think?” he asked.  “She’s on the streets, she hasn’t a penny to her name… you know what happens to young girls with no bloody choices.”

Nolan was silent for a moment as they approached the car.

“And the fact that you don’t know where she is isn’t a problem?” he asked.

“I’ll find her,” muttered Weaver.  “If she doesn’t find me first.”


	3. Roommates

Lacey French had had many jobs in her short life, and after two weeks she was fairly certain that working in  _The_   _Rabbit Hole_ didn’t even make the top ten.  The pay wasn’t too bad, if you counted the tips, and she was good at making tips.  The men that frequented the bar might have made their money in nefarious ways, but that only meant that they were more inclined to slip her five bucks if she smiled as she served them shots and swayed her hips as she collected their glasses.  She also hustled pool when she got the chance, but that took her away from serving drinks, and Garrett, who owned the place, would yell that he didn’t pay her to strut around and flirt. Which was weird, because it seemed to her that that’s exactly what he paid her for.

She was well aware that men liked to look at her, and her attraction to them, or lack thereof, was heavily influenced by how much interest they showed.  As such, she found Garrett revolting, despite his supposedly handsome face and muscular frame. Way too inclined to think she owed him something. She had managed to avoid anything more than an unwanted squeeze of her rear thus far, but she dreaded the thought of being cornered in the cellar, or in the corridor near the restrooms.  Her predecessor had left because he couldn’t take no for an answer. Lacey had dealt with unwanted attention more times than she could count, but punching one’s boss in the balls made it hard to get paid, and she needed the money.

She pushed open the door to the bar with her hip, snatching up a tray and going to clear the tables of the few glasses left by the post-work crowd.  It was Friday night, and at eight-fifteen a little early for  _The_   _Rabbit Hole’s_ usual, less than savoury clientele.  Lacey glanced up as the door swung open, a cold blast of air and a shower of raindrops coming in from the street outside as two men entered.  A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she recognised one of them.

Detective Weaver was an enigma: a short, thin man who had to be at least twice her age and looked as though he survived on caffeine and cold fury.  There was an energy that hung around him, a dark, crackling aura that suggested he could beat someone within an inch of their life and lose zero sleep over it.  And yet he had seemed to care what happened to her, had made sure she ate well, and had never once looked at her like he wanted to fuck her. She wondered whether that would change now that she was made up and dressed to kill, rather than resembling the homeless waif she was.  Whether he would give her that look: that long, appraising, top-to-toe look that so many of them gave, with a pursing of lips or, God help her, a flick of the tongue, like she was a bloody canapé all ready to be sampled.

It was a bet she would make with herself with each man she met, a wager on how long it would take them to decide they wanted more than she was prepared to offer, and she thought she would put Weaver to the test. His partner had given her the once-over when they entered, but he too seemed uninterested. He had a wedding ring on, so maybe he was faithful to his wife. Some guys had to be, after all. Or maybe they put something in the water at the police department.  Weaver’s eyes narrowed as she turned to him, and she set down the tray of empty glasses, a wide smile spreading across her face.

“Well, hey there, Detective,” she purred, letting one hip swing outwards.  “Imagine seeing you here. Can I get you a drink?”

Weaver’s mouth was set in a thin line, his eyes scanning the bar around him, and she wondered if he even recognised her.

“I’m on duty,” he said, his voice terse.  “What are you doing in this fucking dive?”

Lacey frowned, hands going to her hips as she raised her chin.   _So he_ does _recognise me.  Could at least pretend like I’m not fucking invisible._

“I’m working, what d’you think?” she said sharply.  “I can do more than deliver packages, you know.”

He nodded, still glancing around.  It was as though she could feel the tension coming off him, a fizzing, seething energy, the build-up to sudden, devastating violence.  She wasn’t afraid of him, though; she was almost certain he would never harm her.

“Where’s your boss?” he asked then, and she shrugged.

“Making a phone call,” she said.  “You sure about that drink? I’m guessing you like Scotch, right?  Or if you wanted to mix it up a little, I could give you a Rusty Nail?  A Long Slow Screw Against the Wall?”

She grinned wickedly, waiting for his reaction, and Weaver’s partner looked as though he was trying to hide a smile.  He was a handsome guy: tall and well-built with short, dark blond hair and those wide blue eyes that cartoon heroes had.  A wholesome all-American good guy. Probably went to church on Sundays with his perfect wife and visited his grandma afterwards.  She couldn’t have been less interested.

“Lacey,” said Weaver, looking irritated.  “We’re here on police business. Business that does not involve me having a bloody drink.”

Lacey pouted, stamping her foot a little.

“Boring!” she sighed.  “At least tell me you like my dress.  Cost me half a week’s pay but it’s worth it for the tips.”

She ran her hands over the curves of her hips, the sequins rough against her fingers.  She had learned that doing that never failed to draw men’s attention, but Weaver’s eyes seemed to slide right past her.

“You look fine,” he said impatiently.  “Now would you just go and get your bloody boss before I jump over this fucking bar and drag his arse out here?”

Lacey eyed him for a moment, stung by his obvious lack of interest and unsure what to make of it, but turned on her heel and stomped through to the back room.  Garrett was standing by his desk, phone in hand while he leaned over one of the open ledgers.

“I told you, I can’t do it!” he snapped.  “The cops have been crawling up my ass ever since the last time!  If you want something arranging, it can’t be here, okay?”

“Garrett,” said Lacey, in an offhand tone.  “Police. In the bar.”

Garrett covered the phone with a hand.

“Get rid of them,” he hissed, and she shrugged.

“Says his name’s Weaver,” she said.  “And he’ll jump over the bar and drag your arse through if you don’t come out.”

Garrett groaned, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

“You told them I was _here_ , you dumb bitch?” he demanded, and uncovered the phone.  “Look, the fucking cops are here again! What did I fucking say?”

He slammed down the phone, rounding the desk, and Lacey ducked out of his way as he passed.  She followed him out, watching curiously from the bar as Weaver and his partner began asking questions, Garrett gesturing aggressively.  Lacey was unable to hear what was being said over the rock music coming from the speakers, and so she crept closer, taking up an empty tray so that it looked as though she was doing something.

“Okay, so I _might_ have heard people talking about the guy, but it’s not like he was a regular,” Garrett was saying.  “Lawyer, like you say. Did a lot of work around this area, but I wouldn’t know anything about that. Keeping my nose clean.”

“Makes a fucking change,” said Weaver.

“Well, what can I say?”  Garrett folded his arms across his broad chest.  “You live and learn.”

“Wonders will never cease,” remarked Weaver.  “Okay, so what can you tell us about the man himself?”

“Nothing more than I already have,” said Garrett.  “Like I said, not a regular. From what I hear he worked late and went home alone each night.  Sounds dull as fuck.”

“What about his clients?” asked Weaver’s partner.

“Well, I’m guessing a lot of them are in correctional facilities, why don’t you try there?”

“Not the greatest lawyer, then,” remarked Weaver, and Garrett shrugged.

“The guy represented stupid lowlife dirtbags.  I guess the bar exam can only get you so far.”

“You ever have need of his services?” asked Weaver, and Garrett shook his head.  “Any idea who he was working for before he got killed?”

“No.  Look, I told you, I don’t know anything!” he snapped.  “I’m trying to build a new life here, and it doesn’t help when you guys are riding my ass every five minutes!  Keeps the customers away.”

“Why would your customers care that the police are here?” asked Weaver snidely.  “Respectable establishment that this is.”

Lacey snickered, and Garrett glared at her.

“Lacey, get your lazy fucking ass in gear, would you?  This place is a dump!”

“It was a dump when you hired me!” she retorted, and backed away as he stormed towards her, hands flexing.

“We’re not done with you yet,” snapped Weaver.

Garrett rolled his eyes, letting out a growl of frustration as he turned back to the detectives.  Lacey set some empty glasses on a tray and winked at Weaver. He wasn’t looking at her. His partner reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out an envelope and taking some pictures from it.

“Any idea who these men are?” he asked.  Lacey craned her neck, and recognised images of the men she had seen in the warehouse.  Garrett frowned, but shook his head.

“Never seen them.  Not locals, that’s for sure.”

“Any word on any new players in town?” asked Weaver, and Garrett shook his head again.

“Okay,” said Weaver’s partner.  “This investigation is ongoing. You hear anything about Isaac Heller, or you see the men in these pictures, you call us, got it?”

“Got it,” said Garrett sulkily, and turned away.

Lacey ducked out of reach as he passed, stomping towards the back room with his shoulders hunched.  When she turned back, Weaver’s partner was putting the pictures back in the envelope, and Weaver was watching her.  He beckoned with one finger, and she sauntered over, a grin curving her lips.

“Change your mind about that Long Slow Screw?” she asked cheekily.

Weaver sighed heavily, looking about a thousand percent done.  Really, he was kind of fun to tease. Particularly as she was convinced that he would never try to touch her unless she wanted him to.  She realised that she trusted him, as much as she trusted anyone. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a brown envelope, and held it out to her.

“What’s this?” she asked, and he raised an eyebrow.

“We went to see your old boss,” he said.  “I picked up your wages, in case I ran into you again.  Three hundred and ninety dollars, okay?”

Lacey stared at him for a moment, then reached out to take the envelope.  It contained a sheaf of tens and twenties, and she counted through them quickly.  When she looked up, he was watching her with an unreadable look on his face.

“What, he just handed over nearly four hundred bucks out of the goodness of his heart?”

“Not exactly,” said Weaver.  “But we came to an agreement.”

“Getting money out of Keith when he doesn’t want to pay it?” she remarked.  “You must be persuasive.”

“I didn’t say he was happy about it.”

Lacey closed the envelope, eyeing him curiously as she stuffed the money down the front of her dress.  His eyes remained fixed on hers.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.  “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I figured you needed it,” he said, a little impatiently.  “Look, are you okay? This isn’t the best place to be working if you’re—”

“What?” she interrupted.  “A girl? Kinda sexist, Detective.”

“I was going to say if you’re a decent human being, which you seem to be,” he said.  “This is a den of bloody cockroaches. Thieves, liars and murderers. I’ve seen too many good kids lose themselves in places like this.”

“I’m not a kid,” she said automatically, and he sighed.

“Just be careful, would you?” he said wearily.  “There are other bars in this town you could work in.”

Lacey shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, I can take care of myself,” she said.  “Anything else?”

He stared at her for a moment, and then nodded.

“Only what we told your boss,” he said.  “You hear or see anything, you come and talk either to me or to Detective Nolan here, okay?”

“Okay.”

Weaver nodded, and tapped his partner - Nolan - on the arm, jerking his head at the door.  Lacey watched them go, chewing her lip, fingers pressed against her chest where the envelope of money sat.  Yes, she trusted him. Maybe she’d stop teasing him.

* * *

Weaver and Nolan had a few frustrating days of dead ends before they got their first minor breakthrough, and even then it came in the form of information on the victim rather than a suspect or decent lead.  It was four p.m., and Weaver had been interviewing a witness in another case he was handling, an open-and-shut incident involving an angry ex-boyfriend with easy access to firearms. He saw all too many of those, but it was likely they would get a guilty plea.  At least the family of the victim would get closure sooner rather than later. If one ever really got closure on that sort of thing.

The interview made him feel depressed, so Nolan telling him they had new information on the Heller case was something to celebrate.  He poured himself a coffee, leaning back against one of the desk while Nolan held up a file.

“Got some history on our guy,” said Nolan.  “I had a look through what we took from his house, made a few enquiries.  Some of them just started coming back in.”

“Let’s hear it then.”  Weaver took a sip of the coffee, and winced.  “Jesus, did someone piss in this?”

“Dunbroch’s out, so someone else made it.”

“It’s fucking vile.”  Weaver took another drink anyway.  “Go on.”

“Isaac Heller wasn’t doing too badly up until a few years ago,” said Nolan.  “Small criminal practice in Vegas, mostly low-lifes and petty crooks, but enough to give him a decent living.  Nice little house, wife who taught music, pretty much your Mr Average.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, he lost his wife in a car accident,” said Nolan.  “Looks like it screwed him up. “Eight months later he’s cashed in all his savings and his house is on the line.”

“Gambler?” guessed Weaver, and Nolan pulled a face.

“I’d say so, wouldn’t you?”

“Either that or the man developed a serious drug habit.”

“He moved to Seattle three years ago, once the house was gone,” said Nolan.  “Managed to keep working as a lawyer, so maybe he didn’t completely lose it, but he was living very differently to his time in Vegas.”

“Running away from his debts, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Nolan.  “Maybe that’s who finally chased him down in the warehouse.  If he owed gambling debts, it could be any one of a number of the Vegas crowd.”

“Could be someone local,” said Weaver.  “Or it could be something else entirely that we haven’t thought of yet.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, but pushed himself up and went to the whiteboard, writing _Vegas_ and _gambling??_ beneath Heller’s picture.

“I’ll keep looking,” said Nolan.  “I’ll get in touch with the Vegas P.D., see if they can tell us anything.  I’ve asked for his bank records too.”

“Okay.”  Weaver took another gulp of the dreadful coffee.  “I’ll start going through the files we took. There might be something in there.”

He slumped into a chair at his own desk, reaching for the first of the stack of files that Nolan had kindly placed there.  This was going to take ages.

* * *

Two a.m., and Lacey had only just managed to shoo the last of the _Rabbit Hole_ patrons out of the bar, ignoring their protests and locking it after them.  She rolled her shoulders tiredly, glancing over her shoulder and sighing as she surveyed the devastation.  Empty glasses littered the place, puddles of spilled beer were drying in sticky patches, and chips and peanuts were scattered over the floor.  She started with the glasses, stacking them on a tray and carrying them off to the kitchens to load the dishwasher. Once that was done, and the tables wiped, she grabbed a broom to sweep the floor.   _One of these days,_ she thought wearily, _I’ll have a job that doesn’t completely blow._

At least she had made some decent cash; one of the more clandestine groups had been in to discuss business matters with each other, and they always tipped well and kept their hands to themselves.  The money was stuffed down one cup of her bra, ready to add to the cash that Weaver had given her when he was last in. With nowhere safe to hide it, she had kept it in the inside pocket of her coat.  Not exactly the most secure place, but needs must. One of these days she’d open a bank account with some fake I.D., but she had been leery of doing so thus far. An account was just another link to her, a route for people to follow.  She liked being off the radar as much as possible. Hence the need for crappy minimum wage jobs.

It was nearing three by the time she was done, and she washed her hands and ran them over her face, yawning.  Garrett was behind the bar, cashing up and frowning at the contents of the registers. Controlling the money was about the only work he did in the place beyond serving the odd drink, so if he wanted to spend the next two hours chasing up a missing quarter she was happy to leave him to it.

“Okay, I’m done with the cleaning,” she said, and he looked up.

“This register is short.”

“By how much?”

“Sixty bucks.”

“You paid Billy to fix the heating, remember.”

“Yeah, I’ve accounted for that,” he said.  “I’m still missing sixty.”

“So do a recount,” she said, uninterested.  “I’m out of here, okay?”

She wandered through to the back office, where she had left her coat, and heard footsteps behind her.  Her shoulders tensed, and she quickened her pace, turning on her toes, her fists flexing, heart thumping.  Garrett had strode into the room, blocking the doorway, his shoulders hunched and brows lowered. Up until that point, she hadn’t appreciated how much larger he was.  At least a foot taller than her and probably double her weight. She licked her lips, suddenly nervous.

“My shift’s over,” she said, eyes flicking to her coat.

“You’re not going anywhere until I find this money.”

“I haven’t taken anything!” she snapped.  “It’s probably your sixth grade math letting you down again!”

He gave her an ugly scowl, clenching his fists, and she wished that her first instinct wasn’t to insult people when she was scared.  She lunged for her coat, but he reached it first, ripping it away from her and holding it out of reach.

“You seem pretty eager to get this.”

“Yeah, because I have to walk home and it’s fucking freezing!”

Lacey made a grab for it, but he tore it from her grasping hand.

“You won’t mind if I just check your pockets, will you?”

“If you want to grab a handful of tampons, be my guest.”

He wrinkled his nose, but the empty threat didn’t stop him.  Large hands dug into the pockets one by one, and Lacey wanted to groan as his eyes widened.  He drew out the envelope of money, shaking it at her.

“What the fuck is this?”

“That’s _mine_!”

“Like hell it is!  You’ve been stealing from me!”

“I _haven’t_!”  Lacey ducked as he aimed a blow at her, jumping back with a squeal.  “It’s mine! My wages from my last job! That detective brought them to me!”

“You think I believe that _bullshit_?”

“It’s true!” she pleaded.  “Garrett, come on! You were missing sixty bucks!  There’s nearly four hundred there!”

He flicked through the bills with his thumb, clearly counting, and she bounced on her toes, trying to see a way to get past him.  For a moment she thought he might believe her, but then he looked up, his expression ugly.

“So,” he said.  “You got some sort of second job here, huh?”

She blinked, confused.

“What?”

“Don’t try to be more of a dumb bitch than you already are!” he snapped.  “I see what this is! You’re whoring yourself out in my bar!”

“I - what?”  She shook her head.  “Don’t be such a fucking _dipshit_!  When would I even do that, you moron?”

His nostrils flared, but he managed to grin.

“Oh, don’t worry, Lace,” he said.  “You always were a crappy bartender.  Stick to what you’re good at. But I want a cut.  And whatever those cops tell you when you fuck ‘em, I want to hear it.”

“Oh, go blow yourself!” she snapped.  “I’m not screwing anyone!”

“Don’t lie to me!”

His fist slammed into the drywall, making her jump.  The plaster was cracked, his knuckles red, and she inched back a little, still eyeing the door behind him.  It led to the alley, and she knew that if she could reach it before him, she could get away. Assuming he hadn’t locked the thing, of course.  Garrett took a step towards her, the envelope crinkling in his hands, a twenty dollar bill fluttering to the floor, and Lacey watched it go, spiralling downwards like a falling leaf.  She could hear the throb of her pulse high in her throat, her vision so clear it was almost blinding, and she let her knees soften, ready to leap to safety if she could see a way out.

“Since you’ve been using my bar to make money,” he said.  “I think you owe me, don’t you?”

“I don’t owe you shit!”

“I’m thinking I take this cash, for starters,” he added.  “And maybe a free one, what do you say?”

“Fuck you!” she spat.

“Exactly what I had in mind.”

Fear gripped her, made her want to freeze in place, close her eyes and wait for it all to be over, but she swallowed hard, raising her chin.  She’d been in tighter spots than this.

“Garrett,” she said clearly.  “You’re disgusting. And there isn’t enough money in the world to make me want to sleep with you, you fucking impotent loser.”

He moved so quickly that it was a blur in her vision.  Stars burst in her head, blinding her, and then something hit her shoulder hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs.  Her head was ringing, pain in the side of her face making her eyes stream, and she realised that he had hit her, and she was on the floor.  Garrett loomed over her, blocking out the light from the single, naked bulb.

“You will fucking _respect me_!” he roared at her, and Lacey pushed up on shaking arms, readying herself for a fight she knew in her heart she couldn’t win.

* * *

Weaver told himself he really needed to start leaving work on time.  It was nearing three in the morning, and Nolan and anyone sensible had left hours ago, but he had stayed, working meticulously through Heller’s old case files in the hope of finding something, anything, that would point to his killers.  His eyes were tired, his brain filled to bursting with the information he had absorbed, and he wanted nothing more than to drink a whisky or two and crawl into bed to snatch what little sleep he could. He was supposed to be taking the next day off, but he knew he would probably end up going into work.  There wasn’t anything to stay at home for, after all.

He turned into the alley near his apartment block, working his shoulders beneath the leather jacket.  For once it wasn’t raining, but there were puddles in the uneven ground from earlier showers, and the air smelt thick and heavy with water.  His ears pricked up as he heard shuffling footsteps coming closer, splashing and scraping. The streetlights cast an eerie glow in the gloom of the alley, but he could see a shadow moving towards him, hugging the wall and limping along.  It was a young woman, hair in a tangle and stockings ripped, in a short dress that barely covered her and no coat. His eyes widened as he recognised her, and Lacey’s lower lip trembled as she drew near, hands clutching the neckline of her dress, her face bruised and wet with tears.  Weaver put his hands on her arms, and she flinched, tears welling in her eyes and trailing down her cheeks.

“Lacey?” he breathed.  “Fuck, what happened to you?”

“Walked into a bloody door, what do you think?” she sobbed.

His eyes scanned her face, his anger growing.  A bruise on her jaw, just below her lip, purple and swollen, the lip itself cut and bleeding.  Bruises on her upper arms, as though she had been held down violently. He eased his grip, moving his hands to her shoulders.  Her dress was torn at the neck, gaping open to reveal the lace trim of her bra, and fury flared to life in him.

“Who did this?” he whispered, and Lacey sniffed.

“Garrett.”

Weaver gritted his teeth.

“And - just so I have all the facts when I beat seven shades of shite out of him - why?”

“He - he said I stole from him,” she said, her breath hitching.

“And did you?”

“No!” she protested, eyes flashing.  “He found the money you gave me: my wages from Black Knights.  Said I must be s-selling myself in the back room when he was out.  Said he wanted a cut.”

Weaver nodded grimly.

“And then?”

Lacey swallowed hard.

“Said I owed him a free one, since I was using his bar to make cash,” she said.  “I - I said there wasn’t enough money in the world to make me sleep with his sorry arse, and then—”

She mimed a fist punching her face, and Weaver’s jaw tightened.

“He - he tried,” she went on.  “I gave him a knee to the balls before he could get anywhere.  Still don’t know how. Lucky, I guess. Managed to push him off and make a run for it.”

Weaver nodded slowly.

“Right,” he said softly.  “I’ll fucking murder him.”

“Leave it, it doesn’t matter,” she wept, and he scowled.

“Of course it fucking matters!  Have you looked in a bloody mirror?”

“I should have just gotten out of his way when he found the cash!” she insisted.  “I could see he was mad, and I couldn’t help myself! I just had to make a dig at him!”

“Don’t you dare tell me this is your fault,” he said roughly.  “He’s twice your bloody size!”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t even matter, because I’m not going back,” she said mutinously.  “He can shove his job up his arse.”

Weaver settled back on his heels, smiling a little.  Her spirit was still there, still gleaming defiantly in the darkness.  He released her arms, and Lacey rubbed at herself, sniffing.

“Does he still have your money?” he asked, and she nodded.

“So he’s assaulted you and stolen from you, then?”

“Please don’t go full-on Detective Weaver on me,” she said tiredly.  “The law chews up people like me and spits us out when it’s done. I don’t have the energy to give a statement and I’ve seen what happens to girls no one cares about in this town.”

“ _I_ bloody care.”

“You’re an army of one, then,” she said.  “I mean it, just leave it alone.”

Weaver sighed in frustration, but nodded.

“What will you do?” he asked, more calmly, and she shrugged.

“What I always do, I guess,” she said, her voice wobbling.  “Move on, find something new. Not like I’m helpless.”

“Okay,” he said.  “Look, you want a place to stay tonight?  You can clean yourself up, rest up, decide what you want to do in the morning.”

She eyed him cautiously, but it was not the hostile suspicion it had been when he first met her.  Her look was more appraising, as though she was trying to figure him out.

“We can get pizza if you want,” he added.  “There’s a late-night place two blocks down, should just about catch them.”

Lacey licked her lips.

“You got any booze?”

“I’ve got beer and some whisky that’s rough as fuck,” he said.  “You’re welcome to it.”

She smiled faintly, nodding.

“Okay.”

He shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around her and tugging it closed.  Lacey clutched at it, staring at him with wide eyes, her lower lip trembling a little.  He felt an unexpected and overwhelming urge to protect her, to comfort her, this brittle, damaged young woman with a foul mouth and a good heart.

“Come on then,” he said gruffly.  “Let’s get inside before we bloody freeze to death.”

Lacey followed him to the apartment, silent and subdued as he let them in, and Weaver let her keep his jacket on as he flicked on the lights.

“Spare bedroom’s there,” he said, gesturing to it.  “You can take a shower if you want. There are clean towels in the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

“What do you want on your pizza?”

“Veggies and jalapenos.”

“Okay, I’ll call it in.”

She nodded, and shuffled off to the bathroom, still wrapped in his jacket.  Weaver went to order the pizza, getting salami and olives for himself, and cracking open a can of beer when he was done.  He drank half of it standing by the fridge, thinking about his unexpected overnight guest as he listened to the faint hiss of the shower.  She’d need something to wear; she couldn’t sit around in a torn dress that reminded her of the pig that had assaulted her. His anger over that was still burning low in his belly, and he kept it smouldering, a ball of heat and rage ready to flare to life.  Plenty of time to deal with Garrett once Lacey was warm, fed and safe.

Weaver put down the beer can, heading to his bedroom and flicking on the overhead light.  He rummaged through his bottom drawer, looking through the items of clothing he wore the least, either because they were on the small side or were unwanted gifts.  He found a pair of black sweatpants and a plain T-shirt, and figured they would do for her to sleep in. There was a hoodie there, too, dark grey with a white fleece lining that was almost new, and some thick socks to keep out the winter cold.  The shower had stopped running, and so he closed the drawer and walked to the bathroom, rapping on the door.

“Don’t come in!”

Her voice was high, a note of panic in it, and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m not gonna come in,” he said.  “You’re safe here, I promise you. I just brought you something to wear, that’s all.”

The lock clicked, and the door opened a crack, Lacey peering out to show one blue eye and the curve of her cheek.  A towel was wrapped around her head, and Weaver held up the bundle of clothing.

“Here,” he said.  “Probably too big, but it’s the best I can do.”

She took them, nodding, and closed the door in his face again.  Weaver went back into the kitchen to retrieve his beer, drank the rest of it, and got himself another.  After a moment he got one for her, too, and took the cans through to the lounge. He heard the click of the lock on the bathroom door, and Lacey came out, clad in the pants, T-shirt and hoodie with her hair damp and a bundle of clothing in her arms.

“Wasn’t sure what to do with these,” she said.  “Can I put them in the trash?”

“Kitchen,” he said.  “I’ll do it.”

Lacey nodded, handing them over, and Weaver went to the kitchen, shoving the torn clothing into the trash can and taking some ice from the freezer and wrapping it in a dish towel before heading back to the lounge.  Ice had been applied to his own injuries on many an occasion, and he knew it would take down the swelling and deaden the pain for her. He held up the makeshift ice pack, along with a beer, and Lacey trotted over, taking them with a nod of thanks and pressing the pack to the side of her face.  He eyed her cut lip, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding, although it was swollen and bruised. It helped to stoke the fire of his anger, and he took a drink to cool the flames a little.

“Pizza won’t be long,” he said.  “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she admitted, and sat down next to him on the couch, the ice cubes clinking a little as she moved. “Thanks. I mean it.”

“Not a problem.”  He nodded to the clothes.  “They okay?”

“They’re not a bad fit,” she said.  “Were they yours? You must have been really skinny at some point.”

“The inference being I’m now a fat bastard?” he said dryly, and she chuckled.

“Nah, I’d say you’re in pretty good shape for a guy your age,” she said.  “What are you, like forty?”

“And now you’re flattering me,” he remarked.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.  “But I’m not kidding about the size thing.  if these fitted you, you must have been thin.”

“Quit smoking,” he said, by way of explanation, and she nodded.

“See?  Healthier.  I bet you were too skinny when you were putting away two packs a day or whatever it was.”

“Probably,” he agreed, and took a slurp of his beer.  A buzz of his doorbell made him set it aside, and he got up to let the pizza delivery guy into the building.

Fifteen minutes later there was nothing left of the pizzas but a few crusts, and Lacey sat back with a sigh, holding the ice pack to her face again.  Weaver went to dispose of the boxes and got out two glasses, pouring them both a whisky. She gave him a tiny, grateful smile as she took a glass from him.

“Thanks,” she said.  “I - I actually feel a little better.”

“Good.”  He took the pack from her hand for a moment, inspecting her face.  “You’ll be black and blue for a few days, but you should be okay.”

“Bastard,” she said, with feeling.  “I hope his nuts swell up to the size of medicine balls.”

“Well, I have to agree with you there,” he said, and gave her the ice pack.  “Do you need painkillers?”

Lacey screwed up her nose, but shook her head.

“I’ll be okay,” she said.  “Had worse.”

He decided not to ask about that in case there was someone else he needed to add to his list of the damned. There was always worse.

“You should drink that and get some sleep,” he said.  “I’m not working tomorrow, so there’s no need for you to wake up early.  Like I said, you’re safe here.”

She nodded, and took a sip of her whisky, eyeing him over the top of the glass.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“You already know it,” he said, and Lacey gave him a flat look.

“No, _Detective Weaver_ , I mean your actual _name_ ,” she said.

“I thought that sort of thing was on a need to know basis,” he said, and she stuck out her tongue.

“Yeah, and I need to know.  You kind of saved me from freezing to death and let me use your shower, so we’re technically buddies now.”

Weaver grinned.

“Is that how it works?”

“Absolutely,” she said stoutly, pointing at him.  “Now come on, or I’ll start to think your name is something really embarrassing like - like Tarzan or Quasimodo or - or Rumplestiltskin.”

He chuckled at that.

“Nothing so memorable,” he said.  “My name’s Rafe.”

“Oh.”  She looked him over, nodding as she settled back against the cushions.  “I like that.”

There was silence for a moment as they drank, and Lacey yawned widely, hiding her mouth behind the back of one hand.  Weaver jerked his head towards the bedrooms.

“Get your arse to bed, go on,” he said, more roughly than he intended, and she smiled.

“You sure you don’t mind me staying?” she asked, and he shook his head.

“You can stay as long as you like,” he said, and realised that he meant it.  Lacey’s smile grew as she pushed to her feet.

“Okay,” she said.  “But I’m cooking breakfast in the morning.”


	4. Suspects

Weaver finished his whisky and went to wash his glass in the sink, one ear pricked for any sounds from Lacey’s room, any indication that she would pick up and leave for a new destination or—his greatest concern—go back to the arsehole that had beaten her up.  She had said that they weren’t together, certainly not for lack of trying on the part of Garrett, but he had seen it before; young women whose only choices were abuse or destitution often chose the former. Lacey seemed more adept at dealing with being on the streets than many kids he had met, but still.  He really needed to do something about Garrett.

Decision made, he dried his hands and went to pull on his leather jacket and gloves, sneaking silently from the apartment and locking the door behind him.  It was still dry, but the air seemed heavier still, and he thought it was working up to a downpour. He walked quickly through the empty streets, making his way to _The Rabbit Hole_.  It was unlikely that Garrett would still be there, but there was no harm in checking before he went to the apartment above.

To his surprise, there was a light on in the back room of the bar.  Weaver sidled closer, keeping his back to the wall as he approached the rear door, its single pane of glass broken, jagged edges reflecting the wan light from a single bulb.  Pieces of glass were scattered on the floor of the alley, tinkling a little under his feet, and he sidestepped a couple, brushing them aside with the toe of his boot. He wondered whether it was Lacey or Garrett that had broken the window.  A brief turn of the handle revealed that the door was locked, and he reached through the broken window, carefully unlocking the bolt and letting himself in.

There was evidence of a struggle, with glass on the floor and a dent in the drywall.  A chair was on its side, the small table off-centre, and an envelope of money sat atop it.  Weaver recognised it as the one he had given Lacey, and he slipped it inside his jacket. An empty beer bottle was off to the side, and his jaw tightened. _He had a beer after he beat her up.  He sat here and soothed his injured pride and nursed his aching nuts and had a fucking beer._

He picked up the bottle by its neck, the glass sliding into his leather-clad palm, a comforting weight in his hand.  The muffled sound of a one-sided conversation was coming from the little office that he knew was off to the left, and Weaver moved towards it on silent feet, ears straining to hear what Garrett was saying. Something about sweeping up glass. The window, no doubt.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Garrett went on.  “Just - had a disagreement with someone, that’s all.”  A moment of silence, a bark of a laugh. “Yeah, you should see how _they_ look.  Believe me, they have it worse.”

Weaver clenched his fists, his cold fury bursting into flames once more.  Fire coursed over his skin, burning in his eyes, on his lips, making his hands itch.

“Yeah, well we can maybe set something up for this weekend,” said Garrett.  “Come over after closing tomorrow, and you and I can work out the details. I get the usual cut, right?”

There was a brief pause, then:

“Okay, I’d better go,” he said.  “I need to get something over that broken window.  You never know who’s wandering around the place looking for a victim.  State of our streets, man. You know, the cops should really look into that.”

He chuckled richly, no doubt along with his conversation partner, and Weaver allowed himself a cold smile.   _Be careful what you wish for, fuckface._

Garrett hung up the phone, and Weaver sank back into the shadows, flexing his fingers.  Adrenaline was flowing through him, heightening his senses, making his heart thump, and the hulking, solid form of Garrett blocked out the light in the office, striding towards the back room.  Without a word, Weaver stepped in front of him and ducked low, punching him hard in the groin. Garrett dropped to his knees with a whining gasp, eyes already glazed and unseeing, and he smashed the bottle over his forehead with as much force as he could manage.  Garrett slumped to the floor, and Weaver inhaled deeply and gave his rage free rein, kicking him in the ribs over and over, lips pulling back from his teeth in a satisfied grimace as he heard them crack.

He wanted to scream and curse at the man for what he had done to Lacey, but he contented himself with doing so in his head.  Garrett was probably unconscious, but it was best to stay silent, just in case. Stepping back, he tried to catch his breath before calling it in.  His voice was calm when he reported a break-in at _The_ _Rabbit Hole_ , a man badly injured and unresponsive.  While he waited for the police and paramedics, he checked the rest of the bar.  The register was open, money still in piles on the counter, and so he took what he presumed Lacey was owed for the weeks she had been there and nudged the rest onto the floor with a leather-clad elbow, scattering dollar bills and quarters.

The officers, when they arrived, were two that he knew, and after a brief statement about spotting the broken window on his way home and deciding to investigate, they told him they would handle things.  He couldn’t resist hanging around for the finale, however. Garrett began to wake up as the paramedics were tending to him, and Weaver found to his irritation that the man was every bit as annoying when he actually had something to fucking complain about.  The paramedics tried their best to get him on a stretcher without hurting him, but broken ribs were a bitch, it seemed. After roaring and swearing, he took a swing at one of them, and Weaver took great pleasure in arresting him for assault before he was driven off to hospital with the two police officers, handcuffed to the gurney.

As the ambulance drove off into the night, Weaver set off home, hands in his pockets and a grim smile on his face.  Garrett wouldn’t touch her again. Not if he had any say in it.

* * *

Weaver found, to his surprise, that he liked having Lacey share his apartment.  She had woken him that first morning just after nine, wafting a cup of coffee under his nose as though it was a magic potion, and it certainly helped him to get out of bed.  She had looked terrible, her face a mass of black and purple bruising, and fingermarks dug into her pale upper arms like ink blots. It had made him wish he’d broken a few more of Garrett’s ribs, but she had smiled at him, and told him the spare bed was comfortable, and then she had cooked scrambled eggs on toast for them both.

It made a change for him to eat breakfast, but he had sat at the kitchen table and eaten everything she put in front of him, and drunk two more cups of coffee.  It had been surprisingly pleasant, a rare fine day meaning that winter sun was filtering through the window, and afterwards he had left her in the apartment while he went grocery shopping to find something other than cheese and eggs for them to eat.

When he returned from work the next day, she had cleaned the kitchen and bathroom and rearranged the cupboards somewhat, which he pretended to be annoyed about.  Her system made more sense, though, so he left things as they were. He returned her money to her, along with the extra he had taken from Garrett to cover her wages, and once she felt recovered enough to leave the apartment, she used some of it to purchase some new clothes.  She hadn’t asked him how he had gotten the money back, and he suspected it was because she knew what he’d done and didn’t want it confirming.

The first couple of weeks took a little getting used to; he had for years kept his own hours and his own company, and so it was strange to get a call at four in the afternoon asking him to confirm what time he’d be home so she could make dinner, or giving him an instruction to buy wine.  She even turned up at lunchtimes, bringing him sandwiches she had made and forcing him to take a break he wouldn’t normally have bothered with. Merida and Nolan thought it was hilarious that he was being bossed around by her, but he didn’t much care. Having her around actually made him want to go home in the evenings, which was something he hadn’t experienced in decades.

She insisted that she didn’t want to freeload, and so once her bruises had gone down, he introduced her to Roni, who owned the bar two blocks down, and who offered her a part-time job.  It seemed to cheer her up a little, having that independence, that freedom, and he would sometimes go to the bar after work, just to hang out, have a drink, and glare at anyone who looked as though they might cause trouble.

They spent their nights curled on the couch watching TV or reading, drinking wine or whisky, and arguing about all manner of topics.  He found that she was very intelligent once she trusted him enough not to want to hide it, and that she enjoyed a spirited discussion.  She made a great cup of coffee and terrible pancakes and cleaned up after herself. And she made him laugh. Always, she made him laugh.  She was an excellent roommate.

* * *

If the addition of Lacey to his apartment counted among his successes for the year, the Heller murder case was looking as though it would be a notable failure.

“Bank records are back.”  Nolan dropped a bundle of papers on his desk and flopped into the chair beside him. “The guy spent a hell of a lot of cash at some place called _Blue Star_ down in Vegas.  I wrote it on the board.”

“A casino?” asked Weaver.

“Got it in one,” said Nolan wearily.  “Cleaned him out a few times around three years ago, but then there’s nothing further.”

“That would be about when he moved to Seattle, right?”

“Yeah.  Since then, nothing.”

“The cops in Vegas tell you anything?”

“Couple of DUIs, but other than that he was clean.”

“So did he quit the gambling totally, or run away from his problems?”  Weaver sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face with a sigh.  “On the video clip he was saying he ‘could get it’. Money, or something else?”

“No idea.”

“I know, I’m just thinking aloud...”  Weaver frowned, tapping his fingertips against the desk.  “Who owns the casino?”

“Name’s Fiona Schwartz,” said Nolan.  “Can’t say I know anything about her, but the Vegas detective I spoke to says she’s trouble.  Can’t make anything stick, though.”

“Usual bloody story,” grumbled Weaver.  “Okay, we’ll need to tread carefully if we’ve got nothing.  Can you reach out with the video footage, see if anyone knows those two?”

“With that, we may have more luck,” said Nolan.  “Two brothers named Tweedle. Hired thugs. Hauled in for questioning a few times, but always seem to have a watertight alibi to counter anything the police throw at them.  So far they haven’t been caught out doing anything serious enough to get them charged.”

“Well, that appears to have changed,” said Weaver, frowning.  “Who do they work for?”

“Like I said, hired muscle,” said Nolan.  “Could be it ties in with this casino, though.”

“We’re speculating,” grimaced Weaver, but he picked up a whiteboard marker and drew an arrow from the printed video still of the killers to the name of the casino.  “Okay, let’s pursue that angle for now. Do we know if they’re back in Vegas?”

“No word as yet.”

“Fuck it all!”

“We’ll get them,” said Nolan calmly.

“And in the meantime I have a dead body and no strong leads!”

He tossed the marker across the room in frustration, and Lacey ducked out of its path as she entered, blue eyes wide.

“Watch it, doofus, you almost hit me!”

“Sorry.”  He slumped into his chair.  “What are you doing here?”

“Brought your lunch, you bloody loser.”

She dropped a bag on his desk, and Weaver opened it up to find a sandwich of thick-cut roast beef, sliced tomato and strong mustard.  A small bottle of orange juice sat next to it, and a red-skinned apple. It made him want to smile.

“Thank you, Lacey,” he said, with an air of penitence, and she smirked.

“No problem.”  She folded her arms across her chest, and jerked her head towards the door.  “Come on then. I’m taking you outside for five minutes.”

“Sounds promising.”  Merida winked at him as she carried a file over and dropped it on his desk.  “Although that’s probably four and a half minutes longer than he’d last.”

Lacey snorted in amusement, and Weaver glared at Merida.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he snapped.

“Probably, but taking the piss out of you is worth the bollocking I’d get from Drake.”

“Bloody insubordination,” he grumbled.

“You’re not my superior just because you slob around in jeans and yell at people,” she retorted.

“Maybe if you lot actually did some fucking work I wouldn’t have to.”

“And on that note…”  Lacey stomped over and grasped his hand.  “Come on. Five minutes of fresh air and leg-stretching.  I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“At least someone appreciates me,” he said, pulling a face at Merida, and Lacey sniffed.

“I’m just giving them a bit of peace, you wanker.  Come on.”

He growled under his breath, but grabbed his jacket and let her pull him with her as she marched out into the cold air.  Lacey released his hand once they were outside the building, shoving her fists into her pockets and grinning at him. Her eyes were very blue in the winter sunlight, her cheeks pink with the cold.  She was wearing a tiny skirt over her tights and high-heeled boots, her coat barely covering her arse. He shrugged on his jacket, shivering a little as the wind tried to cut him in half.

“See?” she said.  “Makes you feel alive, huh?”

“Aren’t you from Australia?” he demanded.  “How come you’re not freezing to death?”

“Aren’t you from Scotland?” she countered.  “How come you’re being such a wuss?”

He curled his lip at her, which made her giggle, and she shoved an arm through his, tugging him with her.

“Come on, let’s get a coffee.  My treat.”

He fell into step beside her, grinning to himself as she steered him up the street and into _Granny’s Diner_.  It wasn’t the best coffee in the area by any means, but the atmosphere was pleasant, and he got the feeling she was fond of the place.  Lacey ordered the drinks from a passing waitress as they slid into a booth.

“So,” she said, winking at him.  “What’s got your panties in a bunch, hmm?”

“I’m surrounded by idiots,” he said flatly, and she giggled.

“Come on, you don’t really think that.”

“No, not really,” he grumbled, and ran a hand through his hair.  “It’s this fucking case! Whoever killed your Perry Mason guy is out there fucking _laughing_ at me.”

“Actually they’re probably crapping themselves every time someone knocks on the door,” she said.  “Either that or they skipped town completely.”

“Yeah.”  He sat forward, resting his elbows on the table as a thought took form.  “Hey, didn’t you say you lived in Nevada?”

Lacey frowned, and she sat back, her expression suddenly cautious, as it had been when they met.

“Years ago.  So?”

“What can you tell me about _Blue Star_?”

“Here you go!”

The waitress’s bright voice made him look around, and she set down two coffees, smiling widely.  Weaver nodded his thanks, and when he looked back at Lacey she had already reached for her coffee to add cream and sugar and take a sip.  She winced at the heat of it, but when she put down the cup her face was smooth.

“Lacey?” he prompted.  “ _Blue Star_?”

“Big-ass casino,” she said bluntly.  “Not like I’m a gambler, so…”

She shrugged, shifting in her seat.  She was looking uncomfortable, as she always did when they talked about her past, and Weaver tapped his fingers against his cup.

“What about Fiona Schwartz?” he asked.

“Who’s that?”

“She owns the place, apparently.”

“Good for her.”  She picked up her coffee again.  “Are you just gonna talk shop? I brought you out here to take a break, remember?”

“Yeah.”  He took a sip of coffee, frowning to himself as his brain ticked over.  “You said your father worked in Nevada. What did he do?”

“Beating me up was probably the best of it,” she snapped, eyes flashing.  “Dammit, Rafe, I came here to try to forget that part of my life, okay?”

“Right,” he said awkwardly.  “Sorry.”

“No big deal.”  She shifted again, looking awkward.  “Just drink your coffee. And talk about something else.”

“Right,” he said again, and sighed.  “You working today?”

“Got a few hours this afternoon,” she said.  “Can you pick up dinner?”

“What do you say to some fried chicken?”

“Usually I say ‘get in my belly’,” she said, with a grin.  “Can we have something resembling a vegetable with it, though?  I want to at least _pretend_ I have a varied diet.”

“Pretty sure three kinds of alcohol counts as varied.”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes.  “Aim for scurvy, see if I care.”

He grinned at that.

“Okay, vegetables it is,” he said.  “Maybe some salad or something. I’ll see what I can do.”

He took another sip of coffee, and Lacey tapped her fingers against her cup as she watched him.

“You’re still thinking about that case, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” he sighed, sitting back and rubbing his hands over his face.  “I don’t like loose ends. I still don’t know what this guy was killed for, and it’s bugging me.”

“Maybe he owed them money.”

“The simplest explanations are usually the right ones,” he agreed.  “At least I know who they are, now. If I could find them, I might get some answers.”

“Oh yeah?” she said.  “Who are they?”

“Two brothers called Tweedle,” he said.  “Not locals, or at least if they are, I’ve never heard of them. Apparently they’re usually in Vegas, hence my question about the casino.  They’ve probably buggered off back there, and I’m wasting my time.”

“Huh.”  She shrugged.  “Don’t know ‘em either.  I could ask around, though, if you want.  I know just as many criminals as you.”

“Don’t put yourself in any danger.”

“And deprive you of the pleasure of saving my ass like some storybook hero?”  She grinned at him. “Come on! Let a girl have her moment.”

“I’m not as quick as I used to be,” he said gravely.  “I mean it. Don’t take any stupid risks.”

“Hi Pot, my name’s Kettle…”

Weaver growled in frustration, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Look, I’ve had decades of taking stupid risks, I know what I’m doing.”

“No comfort to me if you don’t come home one night.”

She said it in an offhand tone, as though it didn’t matter to her one way or the other, but her eyes told a different story, and for a moment he held her gaze, his heart clenching a little.  It was strange to have someone care about him, and he was pretty sure she _did_ care, beyond the fact that he was the reason she had a roof over her head.  As unlikely a pair as they were, they were friends, and he was glad of it.

“I’ll be careful,” he said.  “As careful as I can be, anyway.”

“Not reassuring.”

“I promise!” he snapped.  “And I want the same from you, got it?  Be careful who you talk to, and call me at the first sight of any trouble.”

“Okay.”  She sipped at her coffee.  “I like it when you’re stern, Detective.”

She winked at him, and he gave her a flat look.

“Stop taking the bloody piss,” he grumbled, and she snickered.

“Fine,” she said.  “If I can get you the information in a way that doesn’t put me in danger, I’ll do it.  How about that?”

“That’s all I ask.”

* * *

Bar tending had never been Lacey’s dream occupation, but it beat working in fast food joints, and it was something she could actually do.  Roni’s place was far nicer than _The Rabbit Hole_ : the patrons rarely tried to grope her, and tipped well, and Roni herself was good to work for.  She was a beautiful woman with dark, jaw-length curls and deep brown eyes, with a penchant for band T-shirts, jeans and red lipstick.  Roni worked the bar most days with just a couple of girls to help out, was friendly and efficient, and dealt with any trouble swiftly and decisively, sometimes with Weaver’s assistance.  She was single, and happily so, and had recently decided that it was time to become a mother. The adoption process was proving tough to navigate.

Lacey finished ringing up a sale and wiped down the bar just as Roni came striding through from the back room, coat on and a harassed look on her face.

“Do you mind working a little later tonight?” she asked.  “I wouldn’t ask, but I have to see the agency. Some sort of mix-up with the damn paperwork.  It’s like they try to make this process difficult on purpose.”

“No problem,” said Lacey.  “Honestly, I could use the cash.”

“Weaver charging you rent?” asked Roni, and Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Nah, he won’t take it.  Says I’m not costing him anything, despite how much time I spend in the shower.  I help out with groceries and shit.”

“Uh-huh.”  Roni chewed her lip, checking in her purse for something, and Lacey got the feeling she wasn’t listening.  “You sure you don’t mind? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“No problem, take your time.”

She hurried out, and Lacey watched her go, mentally totting up her wages for that week, and how much she could squirrel away.  Weaver may not have taken rent from her, and she was well aware that she had fallen on her feet when she met him, but she knew all too well that good things couldn’t last forever.  Building up a nest-egg in case of emergencies was essential. You never knew when you had to make a run for it. She turned to the next customer, painting a smile on her face as she prepared to fill their order.  As jobs went, serving drinks wasn’t so bad.

It was perhaps an hour or so later that her day went from dull to dangerous.

She had been dealing with the usual post-work crowd, serving up cold beers and wine spritzers and pre-dinner G&Ts.  The customer base started to change around seven, when some went for dinner and others entered for an evening of drinking and socialising.  Friday was always busy, but Lacey had learned years ago to spot trouble when she saw it, and when a trio of men in dark coats entered the bar, something made her senses twitch.

They were standing in the shadows, deep in conversation, shoulders hunched a little as though they were trying to keep out the cold, and she eyed them as she poured a glass of wine for a stressed-looking office worker, who thanked her profusely.  Two of the men were fairly stocky, the third a short, ratty little man with a missing tooth she recognised from _The Rabbit Hole_.  She didn’t know his name, but from what she could remember she was fairly sure that he dealt both drugs and information to whoever was paying.

One of the taller men looked over at the bar, the light falling on his face, and Lacey sucked in a breath, heart thumping as she recognised him from that fateful night in the warehouse on Misthaven.  And there was the other beside him. What had Weaver called them? The Tweedle brothers. The man’s eyes swept across the bar, lingering on her for a moment, and she busied herself with taking another order, smiling brightly at the next customer.  When she glanced back, the man was conversing with the other two again, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her.

She pulled two beers, handing them over with a smile, and trying to quell her rising panic as the three men approached the bar, still conversing in low tones with agitated gestures.  The smaller man peeled off, slinking to a table in the corner and leaving the Tweedle brothers heading in her direction. Were they staying? If so, could she sneak away from the bar to call Weaver and let him know?  Perhaps if they sat down with a drink, she’d get the chance. Lacey picked up a cloth to wipe up the spilled beer, painting her usual customer service smile on her face as they approached.

“Evening fellas,” she said carelessly.  “What can I get you?”

“Three beers,” said one of the men gruffly.

“Coming right up.”

She kept her head down as she pulled the beers, as though she was concentrating on her task, but it was as though she could feel their eyes on her, and she didn’t dare look up.  Her hands shook a little as she set the first beer on the bar, white foam running in a creamy line down the glass and wetting her fingertips. She pulled the next, setting it beside its twin.  Her heart was thudding in her chest, and when she lifted her head one of the men was watching her with narrowed eyes, a slight frown on his face.

“Hey, do I know you?”

Lacey’s heart sank.

“How many times a night d’you think I hear that line?” she asked, her tone dismissive, and he grunted.

“It’s a serious question, girl.  You look kinda familiar.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said indifferently.  “I’m in here most nights. Maybe I served you before, or something?”

She turned away to select the third beer glass, and felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.  They were watching her, and she could feel it, like creeping fingers sliding over her flesh. She tried to think of what she had been wearing that night: dark coat, skinny jeans, thick-soled boots and her hair in a bun.  Very different to her current outfit of slinky black dress, high heels and messy curls. She’d pulled up her hood before they caught her, so she was hoping they wouldn’t have gotten too good a look at her face. Maybe it would be enough.  Of course she _had_ bitten one of them.  That had to stick in the mind somewhat.  Had she said anything to them? In her panic she couldn’t remember.  She kept her expression bland, a bartender just trying to get through the evening, and slid the glass across the bar.

“Anything else I can get you?” she said lightly.

“Yeah, two large whiskies,” said the second man, his brows drawn down.  “You sure we haven’t met before?”

“Hey, any more of that and I’ll think you’re flirting,” she said, and winked at him.  “Two whiskies, coming right up. You boys can grab a table if you want, I’ll bring ‘em over.”

“How long you worked here?” he asked suspiciously.

“Oh, a little while,” she said, with a shrug.

“What about before that?”

“Another bar,” she said.  “You gonna pay for these now, or do you want to open a tab?”

The man grunted, picking up his beer, and she watched as the two of them shuffled over to the table where the ratty little man was texting furiously.  Lacey heaved a sigh of relief, and turned to pour the whiskies. Her skin was humming, adrenaline making her bounce on her toes as her eyes flicked around the bar.  The three men were deep in conversation, occasionally glancing in her direction, and it made her anxiety grow. She kept her face expressionless, feigning boredom as she finished pouring the drinks, and put them on a tray.

The men fell silent as she approached the table, and she set down the tray, placing the drinks in front of them with a paper slip from the register giving their total.

“There you go, fellas,” she said brusquely.

“Cheers, sweet cheeks,” said one of them, and slapped her butt.

Lacey’s nostrils flared.  In any other circumstances she would have smacked his face and demanded that they leave, but she didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than she already had.

“Hey, can I get a bourbon?” asked the rat-faced man.

“Sure thing,” she said tightly, straightening up.

“You worked at  _The_   _Rabbit Hole_ ,” he said suddenly, and Lacey shrugged.

“Yeah, sure did,” she drawled.  “Place was a dump and the boss was a sleaze.  Got out as soon as I could.”

He grunted something that might have been agreement, and she turned away before they could say anything else.  Heart thumping, she headed back to the bar, swinging her hips with a nonchalance she didn’t feel and stacking the tray behind the bar.  New customers took her attention, and it was several minutes before she could look over again. The three men had bent over their drinks, continuing their discussion, and Lacey took her chance.

She hurried through to the back room, digging her phone from her pocket and flicking at the screen with her thumb to call Weaver.  The phone went to voicemail, and she wanted to hiss in frustration.

“Hey,” she said, as soon as it beeped.  “Get your arse down to Roni’s. They’re here.  Those guys.”

She hesitated, wondering whether to say more, but figured he’d know what she was talking about.  Shaking her head, she swiped at the phone to hang up, and turned to head back to the bar, shoving the phone in her pocket.

“Hey, can we get some service around here?”

Lacey almost screamed as one of the Tweedle brothers loomed in the doorway, cutting off her escape.

“You can’t come back here!” she said, her voice high and tight with fear, and he scowled.

“Wouldn’t have to if you were doing your job,” he sneered.  “My friend asked for bourbon, or is that too much for your brain to cope with?”

Lacey smiled at him sweetly.

“I’ll bring that right out,” she said.  “Just had to take a call.”

“Deal with your personal life on your own time,” he said.

He stepped back to let her past, and Lacey wanted to cringe, as though she could feel his breath on the back of her neck.

“I’ve definitely seen you someplace else,” he said, his voice low and threatening.  “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”  She kept her voice terse.  “Would you get back to the bar?  You’re not supposed to be back here, Roni’ll kill me.”

She hurried to get a glass for the bourbon, and the man slipped past her, pressing against her more than was necessary to get by.  It made her shudder, warning lights and sirens going off in her head and making her want to run. Her hands shook as she poured the bourbon, and she slid it across the bar as the man rounded the end.

“There you go,” she said tersely.  “You want to pay your tab now?”

He fished in his pocket for some cash, tossing it onto the bar and picking up the glass, his eyes never leaving hers.  Lacey rang up the total and slapped down his change, still shaking. Thick fingers coated in tiny black hairs reached out to take it, and she fought against the desire to shrink back from him.

“The service in this place sucks,” he said, and turned away.

Lacey wanted to sag against the shelves in relief, but she watched him go, her heart thumping.  Another customer got her attention, and she pulled two beers automatically, one eye on the three men at their table. Where the hell was Weaver?

The arrival of Roni sent a wave of relief through her, and she smiled as the other woman shrugged out of her coat.

“Goddamn agency making people jump through more hoops than a circus performer,” she muttered.  “I could just go and get myself knocked up by the nearest lowlife, but try to give someone else’s kid a home and they make you take a bunch of damn tests!”

“Guess they want to make sure the kids are safe,” said Lacey.

“Oh, I know,” sighed Roni, shaking her hair back.  “I don’t really mind, it’s just more involved than I thought it would be.  It’ll be worth it in the end, right?”

“i guess,” said Lacey, with a shrug.  “Never thought about having kids myself.”

“Well, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Doubt it,” she said.  “I’d worry that I’d fuck them up like I got fucked up, you know?  What the hell do I know about raising kids? Never saw a good example of it.”

Roni gave her an appraising look.

“I guess you start with what you know _doesn’t_ work and go from there,” she said.  “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be great.”

Lacey snorted.

“Yeah, well, not gonna happen anytime soon, that’s for sure,” she said.  “I don’t mind helping out when you get your baby, though.”

“Good, I’ll sign you up for diaper duty.”

They shared a grin, and Roni jerked her head at the door.

“Go on, get out of here,” she said.  “Thanks for staying late.”

Lacey hesitated, glancing quickly to the three men at their table, then beckoned to her.

“Look, can we go through to the back for a second?” she asked.  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She slipped through to the back room, grabbing her coat and pulling it on as she turned to face Roni.

“I called Rafe,” she said in a low voice.  “Those three guys sitting in the corner? He’s after two of ‘em.  The Tweedle brothers, he says they’re called. Thought I should warn you that the cops are probably on their way.”

Roni rolled her eyes.

“Great,” she said flatly.  “Anyone ever tell your roommate he’s bad for business?  I don’t want a goddamn shootout in my bar.”

“I’m sure he’ll be restrained.”

“Weaver doesn’t know the meaning of the word,” said Roni, and sighed.  “Well, I guess I’d better try to keep an eye on ‘em, huh?”

They walked back through, Lacey snatching up her bag as she went, and Roni stopped dead.  The table was empty, nothing but dirty glasses and a single five-dollar bill. The men had gone.

“Shit,” said Lacey, with feeling.

* * *

Weaver picked up Lacey’s message just after he dropped Nolan off at his house.  Their shift was over, but after a swift call to Merida, he leapt out of the car and ran to the front door, grabbing Nolan’s shoulder just as his wife Snow was letting him in.

“We’ve got them!” he said urgently.  “The Heller murderers! They’re at Roni’s, Lacey called me.”

Nolan turned, one foot on the doorstep of his house.  Snow was glaring at Weaver from behind him, eyes flashing from beneath her dark pixie cut.  It was a little like being threatened by a cupcake, so he gave her a brief nod and turned back to Nolan.

“I called Dunbroch,” he added.  “She’s heading over with three other officers to pick the bastards up.  You with me?”

“Weaver, you have to be kidding me!” protested Snow, raising a hand and letting it fall against her thigh with a faint slap.  “He just finished work!”

“Oh, I’ll tell the murder suspects to hang around until nine tomorrow morning, shall I?” he said tersely. “Nolan, this may be my only chance to get these fuckers and solve this bloody case! Are you with me or not?”

Nolan sighed heavily, glancing at Snow with an apologetic look before turning to Weaver.

“Fine,” he said, with an air of resignation.  “But I’m taking tomorrow off.”

“Good, take tomorrow off,” said Weaver, already heading to the car.  “Take the rest of the fucking year off if you like.”


	5. Cold Case

Squad cars were parked outside Roni’s bar when they got there, red and blue lights flashing off the wet brickwork of the building and reflecting in the spreading puddles of rain, and Weaver shook his head.

“Subtlety was never Dunbroch’s strong point,” he remarked.  “I bet they had the sirens going and everything. Probably scared away every lowlife in the area.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” said Nolan, sounding weary.

Weaver stomped into the bar, catching Lacey’s eye as she leaned against the bar talking to Merida.  The place was remarkably calm for the last stand of a pair of murderers, and he felt his heart sink.  They were gone.

“Hey,” said Lacey, as he approached her.  “You’re too late. Your guys left.”

“You alright?” he asked, and she nodded.

“They knew they’d seen me before, but they couldn’t remember where,” she said, an uneasy light in her eyes. “I’m hoping you find ‘em before they _do_ remember.”

“Any idea where they’re holed up?” he asked.  Lacey shook her head.

“They were talking to a skinny little guy that looks like a rat.  Used to hang out at _The Rabbit Hole_.”

Weaver nodded curtly.

“Long nose and a missing tooth?” he asked, and she nodded.  “Yeah, his name’s Hamelin, and he’s a rat in more ways than one.”

“Oh, _that_ little shit,” said Nolan, knowingly.  Weaver sighed, rolling his shoulders.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve beaten him up for information,” he said.  “Let’s go.”

“Be careful,” said Lacey.

“Always.”  He jerked his head at Nolan.  “Come on, let’s go squeeze this cunt’s balls and see what he spits up.”

“Fine,” said Nolan.  “But if he’s got nothing for us, I’m going home.”

“Fine!” snapped Weaver.  “In that case, I’m asking the fucking questions!”

He stomped out, heading to the car at a rapid pace.   _I’ll get these bastards if it kills me._

* * *

Peter Hamelin was an easy man to find if one knew where to look, and it was perhaps half an hour later that Weaver was holding him up against a wall by his throat, with his balls in a vice-like grip.

“Again,” he said grimly, his mouth close to Hamelin’s ear.  The man smelt of grilled cheese. “Tell me again about the girl at Roni’s.”

“They - they said she might have seen something she shouldn’t!” he said, his voice high with fear and pain.  “I - I don’t know anything more than that, I swear! You know I’d tell you if I did, right Weaver? Right?”

“So what are their plans?” asked Weaver menacingly, and Hamelin gave him a look of desperation.

“Oh, come on, man, they’ll kill—”

He rose up on his toes with a high-pitched whine as Weaver squeezed.

“I suggest you deal with the threat you’re currently facing,” he said pleasantly.  “Come on, squeak up.”

Hamelin scrabbled at his forearm uselessly, eyes rolling.

“They - they’re looking for someone,” he said breathlessly.  “Debt collection, you know how it goes.”

“Who might that be?”

“Jesus, Weaver, let me down and I’ll write you a damn list!”

“In a minute.”  Weaver’s eyes bored into him.  “How about you tell me where they’re gonna be, first?”

Hamelin licked his lips, his eyes bright with fear and a growing glint of greed.

“What’s in it for me?” he asked slyly.

“You get to keep your bollocks!” snapped Weaver.  “And I suppose I could throw in a little sweetener, if the intel’s as good as you say.”

“Make it a large sweetener and you got yourself a deal.”

“You are in no position to bargain!”

“Oh, you think?”  His smile grew crafty.  “Look, I know where they’re gonna be for the next hour, but after that I don’t have a clue.  How long d’you think your girlfriend’ll last if they get to her before you do?”

Weaver felt like punching him in the face, but nodded curtly.

“Double the usual rate, then,” he said. “Spill.”

“There’s a warehouse on Misthaven,” he said.  “They’re expecting a delivery at ten. Drugs, I reckon.  After that they’ll be going fuck knows where.”

Weaver released him, turning swiftly on his heel and heading for the door with Nolan following.

“Don’t forget my payment!” yelled Hamelin, and Weaver ignored him.

Halting outside in the alleyway, he glanced at his watch and made a swift calculation.  The warehouse was ten minutes away, and it was around fifteen minutes until ten o’clock.  They could make it. He glanced over his shoulder at Nolan.

“Call for backup,” he said tersely.  “Let’s get these fuckers.”

* * *

The rain had intensified, drumming on the hood of the car and making the roads slow and treacherous. Weaver swore loudly as the time edged past ten o’clock, and they finally pulled up outside the warehouse where Heller’s body had been found, weeks ago.  Interesting that some things came full circle. Rain lashed against him as he got out of the car, flattening his hair and soaking the legs of his jeans, and he nodded to Nolan, easing his gun from its holster as he strode to the warehouse door.

“Weaver, slow down, would you?  Wait for backup.”

“We don’t fucking have time!”

Weaver barged through the door, hearing Nolan click his tongue in exasperation as he followed.

“Look, I know you’re worried about Lacey, but would you _wait_?” he demanded.  “We don’t know what we’re walking into!  There could be half a dozen guys in there making a drug deal!  You really want to be another statistic?”

Weaver sent him a grim smile.

“Oh, don’t worry so much,” he said.  “I lead a charmed life, you know that.”

He strode into the warehouse, the sound of voices making him look up.  An open walkway on the opposite wall held the two men he was seeking, each carrying a large box towards an open office door next to the fire escape.  Their eyes widened at the sudden intrusion.

“Police!” shouted Weaver.  “On your knees, hands in the air!”

The men dropped the boxes, stumbling and falling before picking themselves up and making a dash for the fire escape.  Weaver swore loudly and set off after them, sprinting across the warehouse floor as they shoved it open.

“I’ll take the alley!” Nolan shouted, and darted for the rear door, presumably to find the fire escape stairs.

Weaver took the stairs two at a time, thundering along the walkway and barging his way through fire door, gun in hand.  The crack and whine of a passing bullet made him duck back inside, and he growled. _Fucking shoot at me, would you?_

He could hear sirens, coming closer through the driving rain, and his prey would hear them too, would no doubt panic and do something stupid.  He edged back out onto the fire escape.

“Police!”  Nolan’s voice roared over the sound of the rain from somewhere below him.  “Drop your weapons!”

There was the sound of gunfire, two loud cracks, and then the unmistakable heavy thump of a body hitting the ground.  Weaver sighed to himself. _At least leave the bastards alive to answer some fucking questions._

He headed down, following the fire escape as it turned in a square spiral, his feet ringing on the metal treads. The sound of running feet fading into the distance made his brow crease, and he quickened his pace, his gun still out as he turned the final corner.  A body lay on the ground, rain drumming on the backs of motionless hands, a dark stain spreading on the white T-shirt. Weaver shook his head, cold horror stealing over him as he realised it was Nolan.

“No!” he breathed.  “Oh, fuck no!”

He glanced around desperately and hurried over, fingers slipping on wet leather as he scrabbled for his phone.

“Officer down!” he barked, as soon as he got an answer.  “Send a fucking ambulance! Warehouse six, Misthaven Avenue.  There should be squad cars already on their way!”

“I confirm that four vehicles are on their way to you,” said a calm voice at the other end of the line.  “Weaver, is that you?”

“No, it’s the fucking tooth fairy!” he snapped.

“Please confirm who’s injured?”

“My fucking partner, who’d you think?”

“Detective Nolan, then.”

Weaver reached out to Nolan with shaking hands.  His eyes were closed, blood spreading out from the back of his head.  His breathing was rapid and shallow, and Weaver squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.

“Officer down, _officer fucking down_!” he shouted desperately.  “Where’s that fucking ambulance?”

“It’s on its way,” said the maddeningly calm voice at the other end.  “Sit tight, Detective. Put me on speaker so that I can keep you updated.”

Weaver stabbed a finger at the speaker icon, dropping the phone to the ground in disgust, and the voice echoed around the alley.

“Let me know his status, Detective.”

“He’s fucking _dying_ , what’s wrong with you!”

Weaver tore off his jacket, ripping the shirt from his body and wadding it into a ball.  He held it against Nolan’s belly, pressing down hard. Blood spread into it, soaking the cotton, and he felt tears run down his cheeks, mixing with the rain as he shook his head.

“Come on, you stupid brave bastard,” he wept.  “Hang in there, okay?”

* * *

The ride to the hospital passed in a blur.

Nolan had been bundled into the back of the ambulance, and Weaver followed in his car, an odd sort of numbness spreading through his body, shutting out the cold and wet, his mind blank of anything but a low-level, screaming terror that he was going to lose his friend.  He sat in silence while Nolan was in the operating room, staring at the silver rings on his interlaced fingers while hospital staff rushed past him. It was two in the morning by the time he looked up, and it was the sound of Snow’s frantic voice that finally caught his attention.  In his stupor, he hadn’t realised she had arrived.

“I - I don’t understand,” she was saying.  “I thought you said the surgery went well.”

“We’ve removed the bullet and stopped the bleeding,” said a voice, the low calm of the seasoned professional. “But his spine was damaged by the gunshot. At this stage, it’s not known what effect that’ll have on him in the future.  The head trauma is another issue. From what we were told, he fell backwards from a height onto hard ground, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that’s not good.  Currently he’s in a coma. I can’t say when he’ll come out of it.”

Guilt, already a tight, hot ball in Weaver’s chest, began to swell and spread, rippling through his body, and he looked up.  Snow was leaning against the wall with one hand, the other pressed to her heavily-pregnant belly as she took deep breaths. Merida was gazing at her with a troubled expression, and the doctor next to her shook his head.

“Mrs Nolan, you should sit down,” he said gently.

“I’m fine,” she said curtly.  “Thank you, doctor.”

“You can see him, if you like,” he said, gesturing with the chart in his hand.  “I have to warn you that he’ll be unresponsive, but you can go in.”

She nodded, and Merida put a hand on her shoulder, whispering something in a gentle tone.  Snow shook her head.

“No, I want to see him,” she said firmly.

Weaver stood up, his legs stiff after sitting in one position for so long, and Snow pushed away from the wall, squaring her jaw as she faced him.  He wondered how he had ever thought her soft. Her eyes were like flint, her body radiating fury.

“Get out,” she said coldly.

“Please.”  He kept his voice low and gentle.  “I - I’m worried too.”

“Don’t care,” she said.  “Right now he and I should be warm and safe in our own bed.  And yet, here we are. Because of you. Go home.”

Guilt pierced him with white-hot needles, making him wince.

“I - I screwed up,” he said.  “I know that.”

“Okay, you know what, you _did_ screw up!” she snapped, her eyes flashing.  “You’re reckless. You always have been. You don’t care about your own safety and you _certainly_ don’t care about David’s!”

“Of _course_ I care!” he snapped.

“You care about the _job_!” she shot back.  “You care about _results_!  Anything it takes to crack a case!  David used to talk about it like - like he _admired_ you for it!  But all it means is that you take risks.  I bet you went storming in there without a plan and without waiting for backup!  Admit it!”

He hesitated, and she curled her lip.

“As I thought,” she said disgustedly.  “You don’t _care_ about the risks you take, because if you die on the job no one’s gonna miss you!”

“Snow…” said Merida uneasily, reaching for her arm, but Snow shook her off, taking a step closer, her eyes like daggers.

“You have no one relying on you,” she went on, her tone relentless.  “No one who’ll notice if you don’t go home. You’ve got no wife, no kids.  No one who gives a crap whether you live or die! And so you’re reckless, because what the hell does it matter?”

“I didn’t—”

“And now _David_ is suffering for it,” she said, cutting him off.  “And me, and - and our _child_!   _We’re_ gonna suffer for it, and _you_?  Oh, you’ll just go on home and drink yourself into a damn stupor and indulge in a little self-pity and cry and pretend you _care_ that our lives are changed forever!  Well, if you’re looking for someone to hug you and tell you that it doesn’t matter and it wasn’t your fault, you can bite me!”

Weaver had stopped trying to speak, taking everything she could throw at him, standing patiently and waiting for her to finish.  It was the least he could do. She glared at him, her chest heaving.

“It _does_ matter,” she said, her voice trembling.  “It _was_ your fault.  And you’re not welcome here!”

She turned her back on him, heaving a deep breath before marching back into the room, and Merida gave him a troubled look.

“She’s upset,” she said.  “I’m sure she doesn’t mean it.”

Weaver was pretty certain that she had meant every word, but nodded.

“I’d better go,” he said, running a hand through his hair.  “Call me if there’s any change.”

He turned away, his legs feeling heavy, and headed for the exit, his ears ringing, body moving as though he was in a trance as he stepped out into the endless, driving rain.  His legs moved automatically, carrying him along deserted streets lashed by sheets of rain, his mind mercifully empty but for the sound of the fateful gunshot, echoing over and over.  

Something made him snap out of his fugue state with sudden, perfect clarity, and he found himself staring up at the brownstone building of his apartment, rain flattening his hair and bouncing on his shoulders.  He made his way up the steps, closing the front door behind him and taking the stairs. Water dripped from him onto the treads, a pattering, drumming sound that slowed as he climbed.

He wanted to feel relief when he reached his apartment, but there was only a cold numbness.  Locking the door behind him, he shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it onto one of the hooks and letting it drip.  Moving automatically, he made his way to the kitchen and took a glass from the cupboard, pouring himself a large whisky, and gulping some of it down.  The heat of it made him cough, a fierce burn in his throat, but it was good to feel something, so he took another mouthful, leaning on the counter with both hands and breathing hard, his eyes watering.

He poured himself another, and after a moment’s hesitation, picked up the bottle and carried it through to the lounge with him, slumping onto the couch and setting down the whisky so that he could take off his boots.  His socks were wet, and he stripped those off too, balling them up and throwing them in the direction of the kitchen. His jeans were soaked to the thigh, but he shoved it from his mind, reaching for his glass again and taking another gulp.  Not how he usually liked to take his whisky, but desperate times…

Fire from the whisky in his belly began to spread, warming him, and he took another drink, his hands shaking. The trembling seemed to flow through his body, and he banged down the glass, running his hands over his face as he blinked back tears.  There was a soft click as Lacey’s bedroom door opened, which made him suck in air and drop his hands to his lap, sitting back a little as she padded through in bare feet, sweatpants dragging on the floor at her heels.  She was rubbing her eyes and yawning, her hair tousled, and there was a sleepy look of peace on her face that he envied.

“Hey,” she said.  “Thought I heard you come in.  It’s really late.”

“I know.”

He picked up the whisky again, taking a sip and rolling the glass between his fingers.  Lacey put her head to the side.

“You okay?”

Weaver’s mouth flattened, and he shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly.  “No, I’m really not.”

She squatted in front of him, sitting on her heels, looking up at him with concern in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nolan.”  For a moment he couldn’t speak, the lump in his throat rendering him mute.  He swallowed, hard and painful, and tried again. “He - he was shot. He’s in a coma.”

“Oh God!”  Lacey knelt up, putting her hands on his knees.  “Shit, that’s awful! What about you? Are you hurt?”

She was running her eyes over him, as though checking for wounds, and it made him want to cry.

“I’m fine,” he said morosely.  “I don’t fucking deserve to be, but I’m fine.  Not a bloody scratch. Charmed fucking life.”

He raised his glass in mock celebration, taking a gulp of whisky, and shook his head.

“It should be me in there,” he muttered, and Lacey frowned.

“It shouldn’t be _either_ of you!” she said sharply.  “What happened?”

“Oh…”  He shook his head again, and put down his glass.  “I thought we finally cornered those two killers. Went barging in there like I was fucking immortal, and Nolan was shot.  I - I don’t know if he’s gonna be okay, if he’s even gonna wake up! He’s clinging to fucking life and it’s my fault!”

“It’s the fault of the arseholes that shot him!”

“No, it’s mine!” he insisted.  “He - he didn’t want to go, I made him!  He said to wait for backup and I didn’t fucking listen!  He should be at home right now, with his wife, looking forward to his kid being born!  I took that away from him! I’m - I’m a terrible partner, and a worse fucking friend! I’m _shite_!”

“Hey!” she said gently.  “Don’t say that! You’re - you’re the best man I know, okay?”

He snorted incredulously, his head drooping, and she ran her hands up his legs, shifting closer.

“I mean it!” she insisted.  “You’re - you’re _good_ , even if you don’t think you are.  You do the right thing!”

“Oh, I really don’t,” he whispered.

“I mean, sure, you probably killed some people that deserved it,” she said impatiently.  “And yeah, maybe you’ve beaten the crap out of lowlifes. Who also deserved it. But when it comes down to it, you do the right thing.”

He looked away, not wanting to hear it.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” he said softly.  “I didn’t want you to know, Lacey. I didn’t - I didn’t want you to see the real me.”

Lacey squeezed his legs with her hands.  His jeans were wet, a little rough against her palms, and she could feel him shaking beneath them.  He’d catch a cold if he didn’t change into something dry.

“I _do_ see the real you!” she insisted.  “I see a good man, who cared enough to help out a girl who meant nothing to him!”

“It was the case,” he said dismissively, and she glared at him.

“Bullshit!”  she snapped. “You didn’t have to do the things you’ve done to get information out of me!  You didn’t have to _care_!  You - you took me in and looked after me, and I never had that.  I never had someone who just wanted to care for me, not because it was their job or because they wanted something in return, but because - because they _cared_ for me, you know?”

He shook his head, his lower lip trembling, but he reached up to cup her cheek, fingers sliding over her skin, a rare moment of deep affection.  It made her shiver, the tenderness of it, and she felt her heart thump a little at his touch. _Okay. So this is new…_

“I do care,” he said.  “I care about you.”

“I know,” she said gently.  “I know you care, and I know you don’t give a shit about yourself, because underneath you think you’re not worth it, but you’re wrong!”

He sighed, but his thumb was stroking her cheek, his touch tender.

“You’ve got a good heart, Lacey,” he whispered.  “A good heart.”

She licked her lips, noting the way his eyes flicked briefly to her mouth before meeting hers again.

“And you’re a good man, Rafe,” she said softly.  “I mean it.”

Her heart was thudding in her chest, her breath quickening, and she reached up to touch him, stroking his hair, feeling the wetness of his tears and the growth of new stubble on his cheek.  He let out a heavy sigh, leaning in to rest his forehead against hers, his breath cool on her lips, and Lacey could feel a tightness low in her belly, a tug of unexpected arousal. She turned her head, so that her lips brushed softly against his, and he pulled his head back a little.

“Lacey...”

His breath smelt of whisky, smoky and sweet, and she wondered if he would taste the same, whether his lips and tongue would taste of fire and smoke and honey.  She let her mouth brush his again, and he shuddered a little, his breath coming harder. His fingers slid into her hair, his nose nuzzling hers, and he tilted his head a little so that his mouth could find hers, lips pressing gently.  She let the tip of her tongue graze him, and he let out a tiny groan, opening his mouth a little, lips pushing hers apart. His other hand lifted up, palms framing her face, and she dropped her hands to his legs, sliding them up his thighs as his tongue gently parted her lips.

Lacey let out a moan, her pulse throbbing in her throat as she tasted the heat of the whisky in his mouth, smoke and spice and the soft wetness of his tongue against hers.  His fingers tightened in her hair as he deepened the kiss, and a low groan rumbled up from the depths of him, making her shiver, fresh stubble scraping the tender skin of her lips as his kiss grew more desperate.  Lacey shifted closer on her knees, hands sliding up to the top of his thighs as she let her tongue stroke against his, their lips made slippery with saliva.

The kiss was growing harder, deeper, and she could feel her skin tingling, her abdomen clenching with arousal as her heart thumped hard in her chest, and all at once he broke away with a gasp and a wet parting of lips, his hands falling to his sides and his breath coming in pants.

“Sorry,” he whispered.  “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No.”  She shook her head, fingers tightening on the creases of his jeans at the top of his thighs.  “No, I - I want to.”

She hadn’t realised it until that point, but she wanted him with a burning desire that made her think it had been lurking, just out of sight, for some time.  Perhaps since she had first moved in with him. Perhaps since he had bought her breakfast and talked to her like she was a person. Perhaps since she had first kissed him, that night in the alleyway.  His chest was heaving, his eyes dark and deep, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips to the side of his throat. He let out a shuddering breath at the feel of her, and she kissed him again, lips gently sucking at his skin.  He tasted of salt, a hint of musk and the fresh cologne he wore. She could feel the throb of his pulse against her lips, the heavy beat of his heart, and she swept her tongue over the spot, causing a groan to come from him.

“Lacey…” he said desperately.

She kissed up his neck, her lips brushing against his ear.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered.  “Kiss me again.”

His fingers slid around to the back of her head, cradling her as his mouth found hers, the kiss messy, desperate, his tongue pushing into her mouth, cool air huffing from his nose onto her upper lip.  He groaned a little, and she let her hands slide up his sides, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shirt, the small taut muscles moving as he pulled himself forward, trying to get closer.

Weaver felt as though he was losing his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to fucking care.  It felt good to kiss her, to feel her tongue in his mouth, to push a part of himself inside her and taste the sweetness of her.  He was dimly aware of being very hard, straining against his jeans, and he knew damn well he’d end up fucking her all night if she let him.  The part of his mind that might be called a conscience screamed at him that he should tell her no, but he slammed the door on it, blocking it out.  Good fucking riddance.

He was well aware that this would change their relationship irrevocably, but it felt too good to stop. _She_ felt good. He was guilt-ridden and grieving, and it felt good to have her kiss him like he was something that mattered instead of an utter piece of shit.  Lacey broke the kiss and sat back on her heels, hands sliding from his thighs as her eyes met his, and he watched as she slowly lifted her vest up over her head and tossed it aside, leaving her naked to the waist.  Warm light gleamed on her breasts, the nipples small and taut, and she raised up on her knees again, her chest heaving. He reached out hesitantly, one hand cupping her, breast firm against his palm, skin soft as silk.  Lacey was breathing heavily, her eyes wide and her lips soft and wet, and whatever restraint he might have been holding onto fled.

He squeezed her breast, his thumb rubbing over the peak of her nipple, and Lacey gasped, eyes closing, breath warm against his lips as he bent his head to hers again.  He kissed her, lower lip trembling, his mouth wet from the press of her lips, the pass of her tongue. She let out a low moan, pushing into his palm, and his hand left her breast, sliding up to cup her face once more.  Lacey’s hands were moving, tracing a path up his chest, tugging open the buttons of his shirt and sliding inside. He gasped as her thumbs found his nipples, rubbing over them and sending jolts of sensation through him.  He wanted to touch her, to stroke her with fingers and tongue and give her pleasure. An image flashed through his head: Lacey, laid out on his bed, naked and perfect, writhing against him as he sucked at her nipples and kissed his way down between her legs.  He ached for her, to know how she tasted, how it felt to sink into her wet heat. How she would sound when she came.

Lacey pushed in between his legs, her hands exploring him beneath the shirt, enjoying the firmness of his chest and the feel of his ribs beneath her fingers.  She wanted more, to run her tongue over his skin and taste his sweat, to suck a nipple into her mouth and hear him groan, to kiss her way down over his belly and slip her tongue into his navel.  To know how he felt sliding deep inside her. Her fingers tugged at the vest he wore beneath his shirt, slipping beneath it to feel the heat of his skin, and she pulled her mouth from his, leaning back to meet his eyes.

“Take me to bed,” she breathed.

He reached out to grasp her upper arms, pulling her to her feet as he stood, and Lacey squeaked a little as he swept her up in his arms, striding quickly to his bedroom, where he dropped her onto the bed.  She let her arms splay out to steady herself, watching him as he fumbled with the belt of his jeans, pushing them down over his hips and stepping out of them. He wore boxers beneath, and she could see him tenting the front of them as he pulled the vest over his head.  It made her breath catch, and she licked her lips, glancing down at herself. She still wore the loose sweatpants, and she lay back against the pillows as he climbed onto the bed, his mouth finding hers, his kiss hard and frantic.

Weaver was lost in kissing her, in the feel of her body beneath his, her skin soft as silk against his own.  He kissed down her neck, his lips sucking at her skin, and shifted down the bed a little, tongue sweeping over her.  Hard nipples pushed at his chest, his throat, and he slipped lower, his mouth finding a breast, sucking the nipple in between his lips and making her moan.  His hand cupped her other breast, squeezing, and Lacey writhed, pelvis pushing upwards, her legs parting a little.

She still wore the loose pants, but he wanted them gone, wanted to see all of her, to wrap himself in the comfort of her body, to sink deep inside her.  He ran his hands down her body, fumbling a little with the waistband of the pants before pushing them down, and slid to the side so that he could pull them down her legs and off at her feet.  He took off his own underwear, tossing it aside, and when he turned back to face her, Lacey was staring at him with wide eyes. Her chest was heaving, her lips full and dark from the pressure of his mouth, and he let his gaze travel over her body, the curves of her breasts and her taut belly and the soft, dark cleft between her thighs where he wanted to pour his soul into her.

Weaver fell forward, bending to kiss her breasts, moving down over her belly, his tongue swirling over her skin.  She had tangled her fingers in his hair, her breathing hard and heavy, and he kissed lower, the first hint of her scent reaching his nose and making his cock twitch.  He pressed kisses to her mound, inhaling deeply, and Lacey rose up off the bed with a cry as his tongue pushed between her folds. He groaned at the taste of her, salty fluid in his mouth, tongue sweeping over the hard nub of her clit.  Her fingers twisted in his hair, and she moaned, pushing up against his mouth as he devoured her, spreading her scent on his face, in his hair.

Lacey let her head roll back, moaning as he licked at her.  It felt incredible: the softness of his tongue against her, the sharp scratch of new stubble against tender flesh, the way his breath was hot and heavy and his nose rubbed over her.  He was letting out low, rumbling groans of pleasure as his tongue slid over her delicate skin, and it made her belly clench and her hands tighten in his hair as ripples of sensation went through her.

A finger pushed at her, sliding inside, and she let out a gasp as it slid deep.  Having a part of him inside her seemed to increase the sensations, bursts of pleasure going through her at every pass of his tongue, and she could feel herself nearing climax, her body growing taut, her breathing hard and fast.  He rubbed the flat of his tongue over her, and she came with a cry, throwing her head back against the pillows as light burst behind her eyes and a wave of bliss washed over her. Weaver let out a low groan of pleasure, finger sliding out of her as his tongue swirled and stabbed, and she twitched and moaned, her pulse throbbing, cheeks flushed, sweat blooming on her skin.

Her skin was tingling, and she tried to catch her breath as he kissed his way up her body.  Her eyes flicked open as she felt him press up against her, hard and hot, and he was looking down on her, eyes dark with desire, heavy with sadness and self-loathing.  She wanted to make it better. He reached between them, guiding himself into her, and she felt the head of his cock push her open, sliding just inside. There was a brief, faint warning in the back of her mind; they were not using protection, and it was foolish and reckless, but she ignored it.  He needed her, and she wanted him, and any thought to stopping disappeared as his fingers cupped her cheeks and his mouth found hers.

She moaned into his mouth as he pushed slowly inside her, sinking deep until he filled her, and he pulled his lips from hers with a muffled _“Fuck!”_ as she drew up her knees.  It felt good to have him there, and she reached up to kiss him again, tongue stroking against his as he began to move, thrusting deep, circling his hips a little to grind against her.

Weaver felt almost as though he was dreaming.  He was buried within her, her flesh soft as velvet, hot and wet, gripping him tight as he thrust in and out of her.  Her kisses were tender and filled with compassion, her fingers stroking his hair as though she wanted to send him comfort.  She had pulled up her knees, letting him deep inside her, and the head of his cock was rubbing against her flesh, making him want to burst from the sensations.  He tried to control himself, to keep his thrusts long and slow, to give her the friction she needed to come. He wanted her to come, wanted to feel it as the pleasure took her, as she clenched around him.

She lifted her hips a little, just as he slid all the way inside her, and the feel of her almost made him lose his mind.  He kissed her again, their lips wet and slippery, hot breath bathing them, his fingers pushing into her hair as his tongue probed her mouth.  Her hands slid down to his shoulders, nails gently scoring his skin and sending shivers through him, and he quickened his pace a little, making her moan.  She arched her back, pushing her breasts up into his chest, her grip tightening on his shoulders, her body stiffening a little.

He thought she was close, and he kept up his rhythm, grinding against her as she let out a whimper.  She pulled her mouth from his, gasping for air, her moans becoming tiny cries as he thrust into her, and she came hard, crying out as her flesh clamped down on him.  It made stars burst in his vision and he let out a long, low groan of ecstasy as he followed her, feeling as though he was being turned inside out, as though every cell in his body was bursting from pure bliss.

Lacey jerked against him, fingers raking his back as waves of sensation flooded through her.  She could feel his cock pulse deep inside her in a rapid series of movements, her own flesh tugging at him and drawing his hot seed deep inside.  He was groaning, pumping against her, his thrusts quick and shallow, and she clung to him as his movements slowed and stopped. His head was hanging, his breathing hard and erratic, and she stroked her fingers through his damp hair, trying to catch her own breath, her skin humming from the pleasure of his body against hers.

After a moment Weaver raised his head, some of the darkness gone from his eyes, replaced by an emotion she couldn’t place.  He looked as though he was about to say something, his lower lip trembling as his fingers stroked her hair, but she didn’t want to hear it.  She raised her head to kiss him again, her palm finding his shoulder, pushing him until they rolled, until she was lying across his chest with her leg between his.  Their bodies were sticky with sweat and fluids, and she pulled her mouth from his, kissing along his jaw and down his throat. Weaver groaned, the sound of it vibrating through her, and she shivered, skin still tingling from her climax as she sucked a nipple into her mouth.  She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to _feel_.

* * *

Weaver woke late, the winter sun already streaming through the window and making him squint.  He was laying naked on his front, the pillow tucked under his chin and the sheets leaving his shoulders bare.  A tiny smile curved his lips as he recalled the events of the previous night. After the sex she had kissed him, desperate and urgent, and so he had flipped her onto her back and fingered her roughly until she came hard, three times.  She had felt incredible, soft and tight around his fingers, and he would have happily spent the rest of the night pleasuring her, but eventually she had pushed him onto his back and kissed her way down to suck him almost to climax before he turned her over again and fucked her hard.  He thought they might have fallen asleep after that, but his memory was a little hazy.

His body ached from his exertions, and he slid a hand across the sheet beside him, reaching for where Lacey had been when he finally closed his eyes.  The bed was empty, his fingers touching cold sheets, and his eyes flicked open. Pushing up on his hands, he looked around. She was gone, along with her clothes, and there was no sound from the shower.  Perhaps she had gone back to her own bed. He got up, pulling on a pair of loose pants and a vest, and walked barefoot to the lounge. A quick glance at her open bedroom door showed that she wasn’t there, and a feeling of unease began to steal over him.

The apartment was empty, he could tell that just by the feel of it.  The comfortable atmosphere they had built together over the weeks had dissipated, and it seemed cold and unfamiliar.  He went through to the kitchen, unsurprised to find it empty, and his heart sank as he noticed a single piece of paper, wedged beneath the coffee pot.  It contained three short sentences, written in haste in black pen.

_I’m sorry, I can’t.  Look after yourself, doofus. Thanks for everything._

Weaver dropped the note on the counter, leaning on it with a sigh.  She had burst into his life out of nowhere, a lit firework spraying coloured sparks and filling his world with light, and just as suddenly she was gone.  She was gone, and with her went the light, as he slipped back into the darkness.


End file.
